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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861019">To The Canopy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessdeliria/pseuds/endlessdeliria'>endlessdeliria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(platonically? not really), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bad Parent Abby Griffin, Blood and Injury, Dealing With Trauma, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Kind of a slowburn?, Mental Health Issues, Minor Octavia Blake/Lincoln, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Rooftop AU, Sharing a Bed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:27:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>43,262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessdeliria/pseuds/endlessdeliria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Love. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt love. She doesn’t think she knows what love even feels like. Is it the way her heart aches at every thought of him? Is it the all-consuming warmth she feels in his presence – the security and safety? Is it the way her heart throbs at the thought of losing him? Is it the fact that she knows she wouldn’t be able to breathe if it wasn’t alongside him?</p><p>It can’t be. Because that means that love is the only thing that could break her entirely.</p><p>She cannot love, for love is weakness. </p><p>~</p><p>When the past defines their every step, and their nights are plagued with nightmares, there doesn't seem to be a place for attachment. Bellamy and Clarke, at least, don't seem to think so. That is, until uncerimonial meetings on the rooftop turn into refuge. And aren't we all just searching for someone whose demons play well with ours?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey Everyone! So, firstly, this fic covers a lot of heavy stuff, so make sure to check the tags before you read. It gets progressively darker with every chapter, and there is going to be mild smut further on. Also, I update regularly, as I have most of the work already written.</p><p>Enjoy. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke had always loved heights.</p><p>She remembers climbing to the top of the playground in a tiny park in her neighborhood when she was a child, her parents watching her from afar, and all the other kids looking up at her from below. Even then, she had liked the feeling of being able to look down at her surroundings, the swings and railings made small by the distance.</p><p>As a child, it felt like she was floating. Up and up until all she could see below was a haze of colors and shapes, until all the conundrum and constant noise faded away and all she could hear was the wind blowing in her ears and through her hair.</p><p>She wishes that that feeling of lightness remained as she grew older. She wishes that the wind was all she could hear when the world blurs and her mind travels elsewhere. She wishes that the noise she hears could go back to be the laughter of the neighborhood kids and her parents’ voices calling her to come back down.</p><p>Now, sitting at the ledge of the rooftop of her apartment and listening to the cars humming below, she cannot seem to clear her head and drift into oblivion as she once could. Clarke stares blankly into the bestrewed skyline of Chicago, the skyrise buildings casting a shadow over her face as the sun slowly sinks to hide behind the cityscape. She breathes in deeply, the scent of a faint mixture of cigarettes and pine decorating the cool autumn breeze.</p><p>As the blood orange hue of the sky tints her blonde hair rose-gold and the sun becomes almost invisible, she suddenly wishes she had her canvas. A perfect distraction.</p><p>She is pulled out of her thoughts as a vibration comes from her pocket. Choosing to ignore the intrusion, she pulls her coat tighter around her, snuggling her neck further into her collar and ignoring the repetitive ringing of her phone. When the ringing doesn’t subside, she glances over to check who is so desperately trying to reach out to her.</p><p>Her mother. Of course.</p><p>Just like she always would, as though an unspoken ritual, she mutes her phone and slides it away from her in frustration, watching as it skids across the concrete. Sinking further into the warmth of her attire, as though to substitute the cold she feels inside for the warmth she would never admit she so desperately needs.</p><p>Her mother has always been dull pain in her life, nagging and criticizing her every move. Whether it was about her rash and unprecedented decision to quit pre-med halfway through her freshman year and become an artist, or her recent relocation to Chicago, Clarke was always in the wrong and her mother was always the perfect role model. Perhaps her drinking made her forget the screaming matches, constant fighting, and humiliation, but Clarke still vividly remembers, and her obvious resentment remains.</p><p>Even now, miles away, she manages to turn Clarke’s insides out and bring her back to her adolescent years at home. Though not the same home she longs for every night. Not the same home where laughter and joyful squeals filled the light peach walls of her cozy room. Not since her father’s death, when everything went to shit.</p><p>She is once again pulled out of her mind with a sound coming from the stairway. A deep voice rings out in a hushed angry whisper, echoing from the narrow entrance that leads to the roof. She huffs in frustration. Why can’t she ever be left in peace to wallow in her self-pity?</p><p>“No, Echo. I am not lying -- no, I -–. Can’t you ever let me speak? You complain about us not communicating and then you don’t let me speak,” complains the voice.</p><p><em>Oh great</em>, she thinks, <em>now I have to listen to someone nag about their love life.</em></p><p>“No…You know what, –- now really isn’t the time. I’ve had a shit day and your <em>obvious</em> support isn’t helping. Call me back when you calm down and start acting like an adult.”</p><p>Clarke looks over from the corner of her eye, as to not let him notice her attention. She sees the man shove his phone into his jean pocket and stagger across the pavement to the opposite side of the rooftop. She's glad he didn’t notice her since she is not feeling up for a conversation right now. Especially about relationship drama… as if she doesn’t have enough of that on her own.</p><p>She picks herself up from her spot on the ledge of the roof and hops off, tugging the sleeves of her flannel down and hanging her head low.</p><p>She plans to escape and make her way to her apartment, maybe get some sleep for the first time in a while. However, upon hearing her fast-paced footsteps, the brooding man whips his head around, clearly unknowing that he had company.</p><p>Against her well-devised plan to ignore the raven-haired stranger, she peaks up at him, meeting his deep green eyes.</p><p><em>Stupid, stupid, stupid… </em>Clarke quickly glances away, accelerating her walk and avoiding his piercing gaze.</p><p>She reaches for the rusty steel door and forcefully pushes it forward. She can feel his eyes following her as she enters the doorway and pulls the door closed behind her, descending the stairs, without sparing him another glance.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Once back in the safety and solitude of her apartment, she lays in the full bath, her head tilted back against the cool tub, leaning back just enough to let herself inhale through her nose. She lets herself soak in the now lukewarm water, her body almost completely submerged.</p><p>Clarke allows her mind to go blank, her constant raging thoughts fading away into the background, as though the water is absorbing all her negativity and spite and letting it wash away with all of the day’s grit.</p><p>She lets her eyes close as her tense muscles relax, and her consciousness slips into darkness.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Blood. So much blood.</em>
</p><p><em>Clarke's eyes land on the smudged dark liquid lining the hardwood floor, the traces leading down the narrow hallway to her small kitchen. She cautiously walks along with the marked streaks, the blood staining the soles of her feet and making soft squelching noises. </em> <em>She scrunches her nose in distaste, the stench of iron odd and intruding.</em></p><p>
  <em>As she reaches the doorway, she sees a girl, not much younger than her, hunched over what seems to be the limp body of a man. The girl she sees, hair shining gold amidst an otherwise grey atmosphere, is still and breathing heavily, her back heaving with every breath she takes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clarke circles to the front of the girl, mind blank and unrecognizing. She looks at the corpse on her tiled kitchen floor, mind searching, eyes widening. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A strangled gasp escapes her throat as she comes to recognition, her feet staggering backward and her back crashing against the kitchen counter as she grips it tighter than life itself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dad..?” Clarke breathes out as she grips the counters tighter until her knuckles turn white from the strain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Upon the murmur, the blonde intruder turns her head to the side, a wide toothy grin taking over her face as her white glazed over eyes look up at Clarke. She stands, slowly, her red-coated hands glistening as the blood on them catches the light. She looks like Clarke, so familiar yet unrecognizable, almost as though someone cut and pasted her face only the body of someone else. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The girl in question straightens and stares at Clarke straight on, the grin not withering for a second. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Look what you did, Clarke.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clarke stares in horror as the girl points at her father’s limp body, his lower abdomen coated in the thick maroon substance and his once pale-blue eyes that she wears herself now lifeless, the spark he always carried in them gone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I didn’t -– It wasn’t me…” Clarke yells, hands shaking, her knees about to give up as they tremor uncontrollably, “I didn’t do this!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh but you did, Clarke.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suddenly, Clarke finds her self on her knees, kneeling before her father’s limp body as if in prayer. Her small hands now coated with his blood. She reaches to steady herself, but all she manages to do is come in contact with her father’s frame. Her hands trembling as she comes in contact with his icy ashen skin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dad!” She yells inconsolably to the empty room, her screams echoing as desperate tears run down her face and blur her peripheral vision. Her blood-stained hands grasp her father’s face as she stares into his eyes, searching for something. Anything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dull distant eyes stare blankly into the space above her face, all life and color drained.</em>
</p><p><em>Ugly sobs rack her tiny frame as Clarke struggles to breathe, heaving heavily as she hyperventilates. </em>Had she done this? <em>She feels herself begin to fade, the body of her father traveling into a dark abyss as she loses control of her mind again. </em></p><p>She can't breathe. Where has all the air gone?</p><p>
  <em>She gasps as though she is being strangled, a choked wail escaping her mouth as she feels herself fight something other than the pain and running thoughts of guilt and anguish. Her lungs light on fire, head pounding as though someone had hit it with a bat. She hears everything: her father’s voice calling out to her, her mother’s disappointed cries, and her painful tears. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s suffocating, not only in the water that surrounds her but in the constant battle that seems so much more real right now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then, the burning sensation is gone, replaced with a sense of calm and peace. Clarke feels her body relax, the fight leaving her, and the guilt filling her body just like the anguish.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She is falling and rising, her mind brought back to her playground back home. The wind blowing through her hair and the birds chirping all around. She hears her father’s voice, calling her to come back down. No, it cannot be her father. He is dead, she killed him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And yet, there he is, his crooked grin and wide blue eyes staring back at me. She sees his mouth moving, forming words she cannot comprehend. </em>
</p><p><em>The pin-prick of bright light begins to fade, her conscience getting heavier and heavier… </em>She has to come back down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She feels her chest tighten and lungs fill with liquid as she snaps her eyes open to find herself submerged in water, a painful heat building in her torso as she realizes she cannot breathe.</p><p>Clarke shoots up in the overflowing bathtub, coughing agonizingly as she tries to let in air, her vision still blurred and eyes burning, unable to focus.</p><p>When she is finally able to inhale again and her heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm, she lets herself break into loud broken sobs. Tugging her knees closer to her chest, her entire body shaking with the force of her crying. She wails as though the screams will silence her intrusive thoughts and the ever-present demons will finally let her free.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The breeze feels like icicles brushing against her skin as Clarke pushes the door that separates her from the rooftop open. With way more force than necessary, she slams it backward and against the concrete wall, the low rumble of the metal echoing.</p><p>She went to the rooftop on instinct, unable to keep her mind at bay any longer in the four walls of her room. This seems to be the only place she feels at peace, a haven almost.</p><p>She shoves her freezing hands into the pockets of her shorts, instantly regretting not putting on something warmer before running out of her apartment. Oh well, maybe the cold will freeze her thoughts along with her body.</p><p>Clarke makes her way across the dirt-stained patio to her favorite spot overlooking the rest of the city. In the darkness of the witching hour, she does not notice that she has company until she’s stood merely three meters away.</p><p>At the sound of her heavy footsteps, the man turns his head slightly to the side, eyes her as though she’d just barged into his home.</p><p>She freezes in her spot, contemplating running away without so much of a nod of her head. Instead, like the absolute genius she is, she simply stares back at him, all thoughts of common courtesy vanished.</p><p>“Sit,” he offers, hand swiftly gesturing towards the empty space next to him, as if there isn’t any other place on this rooftop to take a seat. Regardless, she gently drapes herself over the ledge and onto its corner, careful to maintain at least a little distance between herself and the stranger.</p><p>She waits for him to question her presence, another pondering soul, bewildered as to why on earth she is on the rooftop at 3 in the morning. Yet, a minute passes, then two, and he doesn’t say a word.</p><p>Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her muscles relaxing and the fight or flight response leaving her body.</p><p>They sit in silence, both observing the luminous cityscape.</p><p>The streets, once busy and filled with energy, now lay almost empty, except for the occasional passerby. Beyond the ashy road, lit up by beacons of energy, soft city lights glow in the distance. The star-speckled sky illuminated, not a single cloud in sight. Rows of towering skyscrapers stretch across the city, the light radiating from them creating a milky filter, and the fog softening the hard lines of the buildings.</p><p>The bittersweet silence seemed to envelop them in a bubble, the noises trapped beneath the surface and distinguished.</p><p>“Nightmares?” The man, who she'd forgotten was still sitting next to her, offers. Caught off guard, her mouth opens involuntarily but no words come out. <em>Way to make an impression, </em>Clarke thinks.</p><p>“Something along those lines,” she coldly replies, clearly uneager to discuss her night terrors with a stranger, “You wouldn’t understand.”</p><p>“Try me.”</p><p>She glances away from the landscape to face him, her eyes skeptical, analyzing.</p><p>“Tell me what keeps you up at night,” he remarks, halfheartedly, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he plasters on a tiny grin. <em>What is he trying to do?</em></p><p>To her surprise, she actually considers it. What harm would it do? It’s not as if she’d care for his judgment and pity, she knows the drill. She’s held her own for so long, never relying on anyone for comfort or aid. Yet, this stranger’s odd company threatens to defeat what she had stood for all these years, and she doesn’t even know his name.</p><p>She squints her eyes at the cityscape, ignoring his comments. She feels the wind flow past her face, the breeze stroking her pale cheeks as though caressing them out of love. She lets herself focus on the rustling sounds, droning the rest of the world out.</p><p>How could one trust another about something so personal as grief and fear?</p><p>The way his dark eyes glint, reflecting the moonlight, render her pondering to a halt. She takes in the starry freckles adorning his face as though trying to hide the dark circles under his sad eyes. She notices the smile lines circling his mouth and the tiny scar coating the corner of his upturned lip.</p><p>This man has known both pain and pleasure.</p><p>The silence devours them once more, the air now warmer than it was.</p><p>“I’m Clarke,” is all she gives him in return, turning away from his questioning gaze and wrapping her arms tighter around her torso.</p><p>“Bellamy,” comes his content reply.</p><p>They bring their attention back to the scenery, the unspoken respect, and understanding lingering in the air before the night eventually takes them away too.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Yeah, exactly! And then when I decide to tell him what I think of his trashy girlfriend, I’m the bad guy. He acts like a child, it’s ridiculous,” mutters Octavia, swirling the straw in her strawberry milkshake as she furrows her brows.</p><p>Clarke shrugs, her eyes landing on her iced tea.</p><p>When she’d signed up to go to brunch with Octavia to the local café, she wasn’t expecting to hear her best friend ranting about her older brother, one which, to her dismay, Clarke didn’t even know existed.</p><p>Should she be offended? She honestly couldn’t care less, just hoping for a distraction that early in the morning.</p><p>“Why can’t he just be happy for me, just this once? And it isn't like he doesn’t know the guy, he’s met Lincoln before and I assumed he didn’t hate him that much,” Octavia complains.</p><p>“He probably just doesn’t want to see you get hurt,” Clarke suggests lightly. If she knows anything, it’s that you don’t want to get on Octavia’s bad side.                  </p><p>“Whatever,” Octavia faltered, sitting up straighter and staring right at Clarke, “Now you tell me, any hot artist guys coming your way? I want details.”</p><p>“No,” Clarkes shoots back in an instant, shaking her head. She doesn’t have the energy to make new friends, much less get into a relationship.</p><p>Octavia glances at her in sympathy and something else she can’t quite pick out. At that, Clarke sobers up and tries to think of a quick way to lay her off her back before Octavia decides to set her up on another horrible blind date. “Well, there is this guy in my building…”</p><p>“Perfect! I’m glad you found someone, Clarke. You deserve it,” Octavia gushes, placing a hand on Clarke’s shoulder.</p><p>And with that, she goes back to ranting about her brother and her boyfriend, satisfied with the minimal response she managed to gather from Clarke.</p><p>Clarke relaxes, glad her friend hadn’t noticed her blatant lie. She settles in her seat and watches Octavia continue her story, glad that at least one of them has found some sort of happiness.</p><p>Somewhere around halfway through Octavia’s story about how Lincoln took her out to a chic French restaurant the other day, her phone rings, the vibrations shaking the whole table. She looks up at Clarke apologetically, mouthing ‘just a minute’ and picking up the call.</p><p>“What do you want? No, I’m not with him and even if I was it doesn’t concern you. I know you care but that doesn’t give you an excuse to – what? No, of course I care about your opinion but that doesn’t mean –.”</p><p>Octavia quietens suddenly, a somber look taking over her face as her shoulders slump and she begins mindlessly drawing imaginary circles on the table. Clarke imagines that this much be her brother, judging by the frown replacing the smile on her friend’s face that was so bright just a minute ago.</p><p>“Look Bellamy—” wait, <em>what</em> “—I’m tired. If this is how it’s going to be, you might as well not talk to me anymore. Lincoln is a great guy and I am staying with him regardless of whatever you think or say. Call me back when you get that through your thick skull,” Octavia hisses out, ending the call and slamming her phone onto the tabletop. At that, Clarke flinches.</p><p>“I’m sorry for that Clarke… My brother tends to ruin things that don’t follow his direct wishes. He’s such an ass,” Octavia mutters, running a hand across her face in frustration.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” she replies swiftly, finally piecing it together. “Bellamy is your brother?”</p><p>“Well, uh, yeah. You know him?” Octavia questions, eyes wide and almost cautious. Clarke briefly wonders why that is.</p><p>“Barely. I think he lives in my apartment though.”</p><p>“Oh, so you’ve met him?”</p><p>“Only briefly. Overheard him on the phone with his girlfriend, I’m guessing, once though. From what I heard, it wasn’t the most pleasant conversation.”</p><p>Octavia lets out a dry laugh, “That’s Bellamy and Echo alright. Both with egos bigger than their heads. Almost perfect for each other. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next time you bump into him, she’ll be gone. They aren’t gonna last.”</p><p>And with that, the conversation is over, Octavia bringing the subject back to her boyfriend.</p><p>Clarke grins softly as she peers at her friend’s lovestruck eyes, partly wishing she were on someone’s mind as often as Lincoln is on Octavia’s.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarke fingers the apartment keys in her pocket, rising the final steps leading to her door. She realizes she feels calm and relaxed, a contrast to how she felt just last night. Perhaps the Blake siblings brought her more ease than she’d expect.</p><p>In all honestly, she doesn’t know what to think of the fact that Bellamy and Octavia are siblings. In reality, she shouldn’t care, yet for some unknown reason, she finds that it bothers her. The way Octavia had talked about her brother made Clarke question their earlier conversation on the roof. He seemed so… simple.</p><p>Clarke finally reaches her door, inserting the key. <em>Weird</em>, she thinks. The door is already open, its hinges creaking as she pushes it further forward.</p><p>She fists her keys in her pocket, every one of them falling between each knuckle as Clarke adjusts her makeshift weapon and tightens her grip. She takes a few tender steps into the hallway, eyes wide and breathing fastening.</p><p>She turns the corner to her living room so fast it almost gives her whiplash, her stance widening as she prepares to attack the intruder.</p><p>Her mother stares back at her, an unimpressed look grazing her eyes.</p><p>You’d think that Clarke would let go of her menacing weapon and fix her guarded posture, but instead, all Clarke does is narrow her eyes. Blue on brown, both women challenging the other to look away first, as though in a staring contest.</p><p>A long minute passes, the air still and haunting. Defeated and quite frankly, tired, Clarke huffs in frustration, straightening her back and throwing the keys onto a nearby cupboard.</p><p>She flexes the palm of her hand, glancing down to see that the keys she’d gripped for her dear life made indentations deep enough to split her skin and draw blood.</p><p>“What are you doing here, mom,” she demands, rather than questions, walking across the room to get as far away from her mother as possible. The faster she could give her what she wants, the faster she would leave her alone.</p><p>“Well that’s one way to say hello to your mother,” Abby jeers, her lips truing up into her usual half-smirk half-leer. She turns back to the painting she was examining, her arms tucked behind her back as if she’s wandering around a museum.</p><p>“Can’t a mother just like to visit her daughter?”</p><p>“Not a mother like you,” Clarke replies shortly, rubbing her eyes with her hand as she feels a headache coming on, “So cut the bullshit. If you’re here for a quick fix, I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere. I don’t have much money left to spare this month.”</p><p>“I don’t need money,” Abby practically spits, as though the thought is repulsive, “I’m here to tell you that I’ll be around for a while. Kane got a job offer here in Chicago, so I decided to pop in and say hi.”</p><p>Clarke scoffs as if something could be that simple with her mother. Her boyfriend may have tamed her for a little while but its just a matter of time until she drops the ‘self-actualization’ act and falls off the wagon again. What a pity that Clarke won’t be there to pick the pieces up again.</p><p>“Consider it a business trip,” her mother chirps as she settles at the edge of Clarke’s old couch, crossing her legs and flattening her ghastly white blouse over her thighs.</p><p>Clarke can see past the bravado, no matter how much time her mother spends on her appearance and perfecting her acting skills.</p><p>She sees the way Abby’s leg bounces gently against the floor, tapping out a familiar rhythm. She sees the tiny scabs around her fingernails, no doubt from picking at her cuticles out of something other than habit. And she sees the way her mother’s left lip twitches as she tries to hold her tiny grin, not ready to give up the façade yet.</p><p>Honestly, she feels bad for Kane. She knows what it is like to care for someone who can’t care the same way back because they wouldn’t even do it for themselves. But she is glad that her mother has managed to find someone to compensate for her loss, and Clarke partly wishes she could do the same. That’s why she didn’t hesitate to leave her hometown as soon as she found out she was accepted to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She knew her mother would be in good hands.</p><p>All in all, she pities her mom. She knows exactly how it feels to have her heart ripped out and stomped on, to have to pretend you’re over it when you’re not. After all, it has been over 10 years. And yet, Clarke cannot look past the resentment that has built up within her over all these years. The pretending, the constant criticism and neglect overshadow the memories Clarke has of her mother.</p><p>So, that sympathy and survivors’ guilt is the only thing preventing Clarke from throwing her out of her apartment.</p><p>Huffing, clearly fed up with the silence and inhospitality, Abby retorts, “Won't you put the tea on or something?”</p><p>And with that, Clarke storms out of her own apartment, making sure to slam the front door for good measure.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(On a side note: I love constructive criticism. :P)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi Again!<br/>Thank you all for the support with my first chapter, it means a lot :)<br/>The next chapter is here, hope you enjoy. This one is low word count, but the next few are much longer, I promise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke hurries out of the bus she took back home after the multimedia art workshop at her college, trying not to smack the other passengers in the face with her easel.  As much as she adores her major, she can't deny that it's a lot more work than she'd imagined. From the amount of work assigned to her each day and the crazy deadlines, she could barely keep up. Yet, she wouldn’t trade it for anything, even if it were a full-ride scholarship to one of the best medical schools in Illinois.</p><p>Struggling to hang on to all her unkempt art supplies, she heaves herself off the bus, glancing apologetically at all the people she managed to disturb while making her way down the steps.</p><p>As Clarke walks towards her apartment lobby, she spots a young couple at the stairs. She is instantly reminded of Octavia and Lincoln, or more specifically how she met them. She met the latter in her art history course, him becoming her first friend in Chicago.</p><p>She supposes she was drawn to his silent demeanor, a vast difference between the rest of her peers. Through Lincoln, she met Octavia, whom she’d warmed up to easily. She was never good at friends, and yet these two remained one of her closest.</p><p>She’s suddenly hit with a wave of sadness and guilt and forgetting the one friend she left behind. Wells was her best friend as a child, and also one of her only friends. She misses him, she realizes.</p><p>He was one of the only people that truly understood her, as he had suffered a loss so similar.</p><p>She shakes her head as though trying to empty it of her thoughts, noticing that she has already made her way to the elevator.</p><p>On any other day, she wouldn’t think twice before using the stairs instead, since the ratty box that shouldn’t even be called an elevator looks as if it’s from the 18<sup>th</sup> century. But with her back already aching from the weight of her things, she decides she still needs it to function, at least until the end of the day.</p><p>Hesitantly, she steps into the metal box, placing her easel on the ground and reaching over to press the button of her floor. She steps back, leaning her back against the cool metal, catching her breath.</p><p>Just as the doors are about to slide shut, an arm reaches out between the gap, forcing the door to a halt. A tall familiar figure steps into the tiny space, the air around instantly getting stuffier.</p><p>“Clarke,” he beams, his eyes scrunching up as he throws her an easy grin.</p><p>Clarke flashes him a quick smile back and looks back down at her paint-stained sneakers. She is baffled at how she didn’t even have to force the grin, it just came naturally.</p><p>They settle in against the back wall, keeping a good two feet between their shoulders. The familiar silence falling between them as the elevator begins rising.</p><p>“So, you’re a painter, huh?” Bellamy purrs, his eyes falling to her easel, which is now propped up against one of the walls, taking up way too much space for her liking.</p><p>She nods lightly, “And you’re a… writer?” she guesses, a hint of teasing in her voice as she gestures at the pile of books, scrunched up documents and folders almost pouring out of his shoulder bag.</p><p>She must’ve imagined it, but she notices a tint of pink coat his cheeks as he shrugs, letting out a hoarse chuckle as he runs a hand through his raven-black curls.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, something like that. Although these past few days I’ve been feeling more like a broken record,” he points to the stray pieces of paper peering out of his bag, “as you can see by the tidiness of my notes.”</p><p>Clarke smiles wider, pleased that he decided to pursue the conversation. For once, she doesn’t mind throwing around a couple of jokes, to her surprise.</p><p>Maybe it’s the 4 cups of coffee she had earlier talking.</p><p>“Oh, the cruelty of writer's block, I get it, trust me,” she grins, nudging her easel, “some days its as though someone has my hands tied together. Which really isn’t ideal when you’re an art major.” Finishing with a breath, she stuffs her free hand in her pocket, afraid she’s rambled on too much. She barely knows the guy, for god’s sake.</p><p>However, when he throws his head back in a deep laugh, her smile threatens to rip her face apart as Clarke tries to control it. She never guessed she was that funny. <em>She probably isn’t, he’s just being polite</em>, she falters.</p><p>Just as she’s about to close back up again, loud thunderous noise tears through the space, the elevator coming to a halt with a strong jerk. She loses balance, tripping over her bag, and slamming against Bellamy’s side.</p><p>Bellamy catches her effortlessly, his large palms holding her forearms in a secure grip, his torso almost touching hers as she tries to prop herself up on her feet again. His warmth burns through her bare skin, leaving a tingling path everywhere they touch.</p><p>When she finally manages to snap back into it, she writhes back upright, quickly glancing at him in thanks. She quickly turns away, trying to take in a few deep breathes to get rid of the blush she knows decorates her face. <em>Stop it, stop it, stop it.</em></p><p>Bellamy walks towards the control panel, slamming his fist onto the emergency call button. He taps his foot angrily against the dirty tiles, his arms coming to rest in front of his chest as he crosses them over each other.</p><p>Clarke notices his fingers twitch slightly as he stares at the speaker holes on the wall as if that will make them talk. She can sense the anxiety in his form even from a meter away.</p><p>She sees his hands tremble as he starts to repetitively punch the call button, giving up after a few more tries and banging his fist against the metal doors. Clarke flinches harshly, something that Bellamy instantly notices.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his index finger and thumb. Sighing, he says, “I hate small spaces.”</p><p>Clarke nods, standing still in the corner of the metal box, to give him space. Bellamy huffs in frustration, lugging over to the back wall and lowering himself onto the floor, eyes landing on her as he hunches over his knees.</p><p>Clarke takes that as a cue to walk over to where he’s situated and plant herself onto the space next to him, still keeping a fair amount of distance. She watches him wearily as he drops his forehead to his knees, taking deep shaking breaths.</p><p>Feeling useless, Clarke settles against the wall fully, looking forward at the passing lights under the cracks between the old rusty door of the elevator.</p><p>As Bellamy’s breaths get shorter with every passing minute and his body starts shaking with tiny tremors that any other person would miss, Clarke realizes that Bellamy is on the verge of a panic attack. His labored breathing trapped in the tiny enclosure, the beads of sweat formed on his temple rolling down his neck and disappearing into his collar.  </p><p>Clarke has had her share of panic attacks, so she knows not to comment on it. Instead, she glances away to give him more space and begins talking.</p><p>“I like to paint the sunrise. Not the sunset, although it’s just as pretty. The sunrise. That’s half the reason I’m always at the roof late in the night, waiting for morning. I like to capture the illuminated blue of the sky because it ignites that early in the morning. I like to watch the sun bloom on the horizon, the golden leaves stretching outwards as if reaching out to stroke my canvas as I try to depict it on the paper.</p><p>“I like the sunrise more because it is like an invitation to a new day, the peach and magenta, amber and rose, lilac and lavender, all blending in a haze. It’s one of the only things that give me hope –- if the sun could rise and shine brighter every morning, then so could I.”</p><p>She pauses for a moment, casting a nervous glance towards Bellamy, his size reduced to one of which reminded her of a small child. A child curled up in the corner of her room, face hiding in the crooks of her elbow, waiting for her mother to stop rummaging through the kitchen counters and smashing bottles.</p><p>Clarke notices his hand gripping the front of his collar tightly, almost pulling it away from his neck, as though that will make inhaling easier. His hand twitches when he senses her looking at him, but he doesn’t look back at her. Instead, he nods, a slight shake of his head that Clarke takes as a sign to continue.</p><p>She breathes out, long and deep, relaxing as she realizes her voice must be soothing to him. She knows from experience that voices are one of the only things she can latch onto when she is amidst one of her own episodes.</p><p>“I only started art school a year ago. My mother always wanted me to be a doctor, go to a medical school, and follow in her footsteps. I was supposed to be the ‘perfect daughter’, that does as her mom says and stays in the same tiny town for the rest of her life. One that eventually gets married and pops out a dozen kids, with the perfect rich husband at her side, living in their perfect white picket-fenced house. She drilled that into my head for as long as I remember. She made herself out to be the role model, with the perfect face and perfect life. As if that lasted. Guess she didn’t think so far ahead since she became an alcoholic.”</p><p>At that, Bellamy lets out a breathy laugh, which honestly could just as well be seen as cough. Clarke smiles gently.</p><p>She notices his muscles slump and his breathing even out, the tension in his defined jaw fading. He lifts his head to lean against the wall, his eyes falling half-open.</p><p>He looks over to Clarke, eyes wet and unfocussed, a dazed expression on his face.</p><p>Instantly, Clarke feels guilty for witnessing him in such a vulnerable state. She could imagine how terrified and violated she would feel if someone had watched her battle an attack, especially someone she can’t fully consider a friend. After this, however, she would imagine that they’ve reached that point.</p><p>Moments pass, their breathing sounds combining in the small space that is now filled with warm air. The atmosphere is calm, all of a sudden, the agitation replaced by tranquility.</p><p>“I’m a little —uh— claustrophobic”, he breathes out, finally breaking the silence. Clarke meets his eyes, smirking lightly as if to say, ‘just a little?’.</p><p>Bellamy lets out a choked laugh, running his hand through his hair once more, which she realizes must be a way he relieves his anxiety.</p><p>“It’s my gift and curse,” he continues, “when the walls close in, I want to curl my hands into fists and punch right through them. I know they’re not really doing that, but until I feel the breeze back in my face, my mind can’t seem to let it go. My mind searches for ways to escape while my body freezes, even with the adrenaline pumping in my veins. That’s why I like the roof, it has just enough air for me to be able to breathe again.”</p><p>Just as he turns his head back to the doors he was staring at just a few moments ago, the elevator jerks upward, startling the both of them.</p><p>Before Clarke can begin to think about what he just said, Bellamy is scrambling to his feet and heading for the doors, his abruptness pulling her close behind him.</p><p>Once out of the metal box of horrors, they stand in the empty hallway of a random floor. Bellamy stands still, eyes forward and distant, breathing in the stale air as if he’s never felt it before until now.</p><p>Clarke, unsure of what to do with herself, simply leans against the rugged surface of the wall to her left, foot-tapping out random rhythms as she bites her lip in concentration. Or out of anxiety, she doesn’t know.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Bellamy’s deep voice rings out, the low timbers echoing in the space around them.</p><p>“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Clarke shoots back, unfazed, and quite frankly, more at peace than she was when she entered the elevator.</p><p>Suddenly, Bellamy flips around, facing her with a determined expression fixated on his face. She can see the nervousness and guilt swimming in his eyes, nevertheless.</p><p>“Come downstairs to the café with me,” he muses, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, “It’s the least I can do.”</p><p>Clarke replies in an instant, her awkward self-returning with the usual excuse, “I have my visual arts assignment due in two days. I should start working on it.”</p><p>“You could get it started downstairs. I have a few things needed to be done too,” he entreats, his confident gaze wavering as he catches Clarke’s eyes.</p><p>“I don’t know…” she hesitates, her eyes tearing away from his to land on her abandoned easel, leaning against the wall, almost mocking her.</p><p>“Please, Clarke,” he beseeches, hand gripping the strap of his leather bookbag tighter.</p><p>Clarke considers it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being in his company. She doesn’t feel like being alone right now anyway. She meets his eyes once more, realizing she isn’t the only one that feels that way.</p><p>Whether he is doing this to avoid the situation in the lift, or for his own dignity, it doesn’t matter because maybe she wants it just as much as he does.</p><p>With a defeated huff, Clarke mutters softly, “Fine,” grabbing her heavy bag off the floor and walking over to her easel.</p><p>“I need to drop my stuff off first. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten,” she calls out, heading for the stairs. There is no way she’s risking it again.</p><p>Just as she turns to enter the stairway, she hears Bellamy call out, “OK, see you in a few,” before letting out a loud sigh, clearly content with her compliance.</p><p>She smiles all the way up to her apartment.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Her eyes scanned the quiet scenery of the café. Her hand gripped her leather-bound sketchbook, her hands sweaty and nervous.</p><p>She doesn’t even know why she is so nervous, it’s just Bellamy.</p><p>Catching a glimpse of the raven-haired man waving his hand to gain her attention, she heads over.</p><p>“Hey,” she mumbles, taking a seat across from him, a tiny glass table separating them.</p><p>“Hey”, he mimics, throwing her an easy smile. She smiles back, setting her art supplies on her lap awkwardly.</p><p>They order drinks and fade into a comfortable silence. She scratches at her sketchpad and he types away on his laptop, both glancing over at one another every once in a while when the other isn’t watching.</p><p>Clarke is surprised at how easy this is. No fake smiles or useless small talk. Just quiet and serenity in the presence of another soul. One that is quite similar to hers, she now realizes.</p><p>They chat and share a few jokes, the quiet chuckles filling the small space. Nothing groundbreaking or remarkable, just simple conversation between two friends. If you could even call it that.</p><p>She finds out that he is writing a manuscript, something about a romance. She isn’t too sure, as she’s a little distracted by the way his forearms move amidst the fabric of his shirt as he reaches across the table for his coffee cap. She finds out he’s a published author, something she found not-so-shocking.</p><p>He has a writer’s hands, she notices, the callouses coating his long fingers that quickly ran over his keyboard.</p><p>What she doesn’t notice is the way he watches her out of the corner of her eye: the way her brow furrowed up in concentration as her hands glided with her pencil, the way she nibbled on the tip of the pen she used to ink carelessly, her messy curls falling over her heart-shaped face.</p><p>She doesn’t notice him smile to himself, thinking that any moment like this would have been the start of a romance arc in any cliché romance novel.</p><p>And she definitely doesn’t notice the way his face falls slack at the thought, a sense of guilt washing over him as he remembers about his girlfriend.</p><p>“Bellamy?” comes a menacing voice, its owner standing tall at the doorway of the café, hands crossed in a defensive stance. Her piercing eyes analyzing Clarke’s presence.</p><p>Clarke almost feels a shiver pass across her skin, the stare so similar to her mother’s.</p><p>“What is <em>she </em>doing here?” Echo demands, as though she knows who Clarke even is, but by the look on Bellamy’s face, she supposes that she does.</p><p>Speak, or well<em>, think</em> of the devil.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter will be up within this week :)</p><p>(p.s. constructive criticism is always welcome :p)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey there!<br/>This chapter is a little early, but I just couldn't help myself...<br/>Thank you all so much for all the comments and kudos :)</p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“--No!  I’m not the one that is jealous here! I’m not the one who keeps making up excuses to get out of family dinners, dates, and any chance we get time to spend together! I’m not the one that only cares about themselves!”</p><p>“Oh, really!? At least I’m not cheating on my girlfriend with a girl I met three days ago! At least I have some dignity and respect for someone who isn’t another prospective fuckbuddy!”</p><p>Clarke opens her eyes groggily, the sunlight shutting them back closed as she squints. <em>Who in their right mind would leave their window wide open for everyone to hear a goddamn lovers’ quarrel?</em></p><p>Reluctantly, she sits up in her bed, a hundred pillows she was cocooned in dropping to the ground. Twisting her neck to the source of the noise, she sees her window open. <em>Of course.</em></p><p>Her head pounds as she tries to regain coordination, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to get rid of the sleep.</p><p>“For fuck's sake, Echo, I wasn’t cheating on you! Am I not allowed to have friends anymore? Not everything is about you—”</p><p>“– And you don’t think I know that? You’ve made it pretty damn clear thus far. And do you stare at all your <em>friends </em>as if they fucking fell from heaven? No? Didn’t think so.”</p><p>Oh, so that’s who is screaming bloody murder at 6 o’clock in the morning. Clarke’s memories start flooding back as she recalls the day before. The peaceful afternoon turned bitter by Bellamy’s hound of a girlfriend. It’s a shock she doesn’t have horns and flaming eyes with that attitude.</p><p>After Echo and Bellamy stormed out of the café, both fuming, Clarke had stayed a while longer. She found that the bustling energy in the coffeeshop gave her a sense of calm, despite the outburst from the couple prior.</p><p>Clarke honestly doesn’t know why the encounter sparked so much rage in Echo. It’s not as though they were sitting hand in hand and sharing a meal.</p><p>It was just friends, more or less, enjoying some simple company.</p><p>She shouldn’t care, but for some unknown reason, the fact that Echo felt so threatened by Clarke’s presence made her feel alive. Maybe Clarke still had some of her fire left inside.</p><p>Angry yells interrupted her thoughts, Echo’s shrill voice breaking through the quietness of the morning. She’s surprised they still haven’t been told to shut up, considering its barely six o’clock.</p><p>Crawling from under her feathery blankets and warm bed sheets, she stumbles to the window, drawing the drapes slightly and peering up at the balcony above her.</p><p>“You know what. Screw this. I'm done. This shouldn’t be so difficult. We shouldn’t have to fight every time we see each other,” a deep voice grumbles.</p><p>“Then maybe we should try and make this work, Bellamy! Maybe you should stop being such a dick and get your head out of your a—”</p><p>“Or maybe, just maybe, you should close the fucking window!” Clarke yells out to the street, slamming her window so hard it rattles within the frame.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Stumbling up the stairs to her apartment after another long art history lecture, Clarke groans in frustration. She’s had an exhausting day and all she wants is to bury herself in her comforter and watch Game of Thrones for the umpteenth time this week.</p><p>She reaches her door, huffing exasperatedly when she realizes it once again unlocked.</p><p>Walking in hesitantly, her eyes search for her mother, dread building up in her stomach. Now is not the right time to face her mother.</p><p>Clarke drops her things in the hallway, making her way to the kitchen, hearing the sounds of liquid pouring.</p><p>“Clarke,” Abby beamed uncharacteristically, eyes wild. She raises a glass to her mouth, downing the rest of what is left in it with an extensive tilt back of her head, “You’re home”.</p><p>Clarke eyes the scene before her. An opened bottle of Montrouge Merlot sits on the table, accompanied by an empty wine glass, currently held by her not-so-sober mother.</p><p>Abby leans on the tabletop, eyes wide and clueless.</p><p>“You’re drunk,” is all that Clarke offers, trying to keep her temper at bay. <em>How dare her mother barge into her home and out of all things, drink in front of her as though she has the right to.</em></p><p>“Don’t be so coarse, dear. I’m here to say goodbye.”</p><p>At that, Clarke’s ears perk up, still not meeting her mother’s eyes as she stills and waits for her mother to continue.</p><p>“Marcus’ job didn’t quite work out, so we’ll be heading to New York. The flight is tomorrow evening,” Abby slurs.</p><p>Clarke doesn’t know whether to be thankful or ambivalent. She feels for Kane, yet the fact that her mother will lay off her back is comforting.</p><p>“Doesn’t give you the right to show up unannounced.”</p><p>“I’m your mother, dear. Of course, it gives me the right,” Abby scoffs, reaching her hand for the bottle to pour another glassful.</p><p>Clarke snatches the bottle away before she can, snarling, “No, it doesn’t. You show up after almost a year of silence, break into my apartment, and drink my wine. You have no fucking right to act as if I’m still your daughter. Not anymore.”</p><p>Abby stands suddenly, the stool she was sitting on flying back and crashing against the tiles. She straightens her back and glares at Clarke.</p><p>“I have every right! I raised you, fed you, gave you a roof over your head. I am the sole reason you’re here right now and not laying in a ditch somewhere, still sobbing over your father!” Abby yells, her hand slamming the counter as she finishes.</p><p>Clarke lets out a humorless laugh, raising her eyes to finally look at her mother, hissing out, “You’re unbelievable,” just as Abby spits out, “You’re a disgrace.”</p><p>Placing the bottle she was grasping on the table, Clarke steps closer to her, eyes at the same level, glaring at each other.</p><p>Abby glowers at her, the façade transparent as she struggles to keep her eyes focused at her daughter.</p><p>Stepping back, she reaches for the almost empty bottle, tilting it up with shaking hands as she tries aiming for the glass.</p><p>“What happened to staying sober, huh? It didn’t take long for you to go back to being an alcoholic. What’s your excuse this time? Pocket money cut short this month?” Clarke rages disgusted at the shamelessness in which her mother chugs down another glass.</p><p>“It’s been a stressful week and you don’t have the right to talk to me that way. Don’t forget your place, Clarke,” Abby fumes, emptying yet another glass and reaching for the neck of the bottle.</p><p>“Stop that!” Clarke yells, trying to snatch the bottle just as Abby tightens her grip on it. With a sharp pull, she attempts to take it away. At the intrusion, Abby lets go just as Clarke pulls her hand away, and they both watch it shatter on the floor, the remaining liquid splattering over the white tiles.</p><p>Abby goes limp, whether it's in shame or shock, Clarke disregards it either way. Crouching down to pick up the shards as she tries taking deep breaths, pushing all her violent thoughts away.</p><p>“Look what you did! Another good thing wasted because of you,” Abby scolds, oblivious to the way Clarke’s body starts shaking in anger and terror.</p><p>The red spilled all over the tiles brings her back to her most recent nightmare. The liquid taunting her as she tries to focus on cleaning up the mess, taking deep breaths to steady her heart rhythm before she has another episode. <em>It’s not his blood, it’s not his blood, it’s not his blood,</em> she chants.</p><p>“Couldn’t let me have a minute of relief?” Abby mocks, not even attempting to help out, “You just have to make everyone around you suffer—”</p><p>“Get out.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I said, GET OUT!” Clarke explodes, her eyes snapping up to her mother with fire within them, her posture similar to one of a predator.</p><p>When her mother doesn’t budge, she yells once more, “Get out!”</p><p>As Abby finally scramblers out of the room, eyes wide as she quickly takes in Clarke’s blown eyes and tremoring hands, snatching her purse impulsively and disappearing behind the doorway.</p><p>Clarke inhales through her nose and out of her mouth, trying to mimic the breathing exercises she learned in her single therapy session last month.</p><p>She sits on the cold hard floor, trying to keep her tears from spilling out as she lets out shaky dry heaves.</p><p>She doesn’t know how much time had passed when she comes back to herself, the stains now embedded in the flooring, glass shards still thrown around the room.</p><p>She resumes picking up the pieces, finally letting silent tears stream down her face and into the red puddles below her, the water diffusing into the dark substance.</p><p>She only now notices the numb pain in her right hand, too out of it to feel it in her fit. A large gash covers her palm, the blood that must be leaving it meeting the alcohol and causing it to sting.</p><p>Clarke ignores it. <em>Maybe the pain will distract her from her thoughts.</em></p><p>She cleans the aftermath, emotionally and physically drained. Her racing mind Her mother always brought out the worst in her, and today was not an exception.</p><p>Once the site stops looking like a crime scene, she makes a rash decision to go up to the roof. She hopes she will be left alone, maybe to drown in the sounds of the city and soak in the cold breeze.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She sits at her favorite spot on the ledge, her feet dangling over the edge. This time, she lets her mind go completely black, the thoughts carried away by the soft wind.</p><p>She wishes she were back at home. Her father’s arms wrapped around her as he swung her in the air, her giddy screams filling the air. The sun illuminating her golden curls and her father’s smile.</p><p>She wishes it were easy again. That the demons in her mind turned back into being the monster under her bed.</p><p>As always, her fantasizing is interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open and the clack of boots against the ground.</p><p>She doesn’t turn her eyes away from the nearing sunset as she feels him swing over to sit right by her.</p><p>“Hey,” Bellamy greets her, dropping his hands to his lap as he looks at her in mild interest.</p><p>She doesn’t answer him, closing her eyes and listening to the rustling of leaves below.  She shivers as the wind raises goosebumps along her arms, shrugging into herself. Bellamy continues staring, tension evident in his posture.</p><p>“Clarke?”</p><p>She ignores him once more. After a long minute of silence, he breaths in a defeated sigh, turning his body completely around to face her.</p><p>“Are you ok?” Bellamy insists, his heavy gaze causing her to involuntarily shiver once again. <em>Damn him.</em></p><p>“What’s it to you,” she jeers, shrinking further into her oversized pullover.</p><p>Bellamy breathes out shakily, reaching for his neck and loosening the tie around it. He almost seems nervous, something she’s learned is unlike him.</p><p>“I’m worried about you. Am I not allowed to be?” he muses, his cautious voice betraying the otherwise relaxed way he says it.</p><p>“Stop pretending to give a damn. You don’t care, nobody ever cares,” she growls, sick of the false concern and sudden interest in her. As soon as she’s uttered the words, the mood shifts, and the cold air suddenly turns heated. “Just leave.”</p><p>“You’re my friend. Of course, I fucking care,” he says, his frame instantly turning rigid as his hands leave his lap and land almost forcefully right beside hers.</p><p>She flinches at the suddenness. He notices and quickly retracts his hands. But he doesn’t make a move to leave.</p><p>“You wouldn’t understand,” she says less urgently, as though her dismissal will make him fade into the dark.</p><p>“You don’t know the half of it, princess.”</p><p>Silence plagues the atmosphere, the cold eating away at the warmth radiating from their bodies. Both of them look into the distance ominously, something so very like them.</p><p>With a breath, the silence is shattered as Bellamy begins to speak, “My sister and I grew up in the poorer side of town. You could say we had it rougher than some, our mother a drug addict and our father nowhere to be found.”</p><p>She looks up at him then, her eyes widening a fraction as she takes in the somber look on his face and the tenseness in his jaw.</p><p>“We grew up with random strangers in the house every evening,” he continues, “Men, mostly. It didn’t bother me until she found herself a boyfriend at least a decade older than her. Promised her money, a better home, our safety. And when those things didn’t come piling in, she was too involved to throw him out.</p><p>“And he knew that. He knew that if she had, we would go back to waiting days for a fresh meal. So, he made himself comfortable. He started with me, at first when my mother wasn’t home, then even if she was. I hid Octavia in a tiny closet on days he was drunk. I made sure that he never saw her those nights, made sure that one beating was enough so he wouldn’t go looking for her. I slipped in along with her on the days I was lucky enough to have time to run away and hide.”</p><p>Quite frankly, she wasn’t shocked. The claustrophobia, the roof, it all made sense. If only she wasn’t so blind and selfish to see the signs.</p><p>She feels guilt pool in her stomach, avoiding his eyes as she stares at the dried blood around the wound on her hand.</p><p>She isn’t going to say she is sorry. It wouldn’t be fitting, especially not after this. She also isn’t going to show him pity, because she knows from personal experience that it is the last thing someone like them would want to hear. So, instead, she tries to show him understanding.</p><p>“Why are you telling me this?” she insists, though her voice is much softer than previously, laced with guilt and apprehension. She is still avoiding his gaze, afraid of what she might see.</p><p>“So that next time you don’t try and convince me that I don’t know a thing,” he replies simply, turning his head away from her since she still doesn’t try to meet them. His voice is almost playful, so she visibly relaxes as she realizes she is forgiven.</p><p>Yet, when they drift out of the conversation, she feels him waiting for something, shooting lingering glances at her once in a while. She supposes he is waiting for her story, almost as if they’re trading secrets in elementary school.</p><p>She sighs, knowing he isn’t going to let it go, “My mother. She’s an alcoholic.”</p><p>He sits still, offering no reaction, waiting for her to continue.</p><p>“She showed up to my apartment about a week ago, sober and more-or-less put together. I knew it wouldn’t last but I had hoped it would go on for at least a month before she fell off the wagon again. Wishful thinking. I walked into my home today to find her drowning a bottle of my wine. Drunk out of her mind, which means she wasn’t sober even before she arrived at my place.”</p><p>She exhales, satisfied with her answer. Bellamy, on the other hand, was not. When they finally meet each other’s eyes, he looks unconvinced, as though he knows she isn’t saying the full truth.</p><p>Exasperated, she articulated, “We got into a fight. Things got a little…aggressive.”</p><p>Bellamy nods finally satiated by her explanation, settling back into his laid back position on the ledge.</p><p>Clarke finally lets herself indulge in the night. The trees rustling from somewhere below, lights flickering, cicadas clicking. The noises from this high up always seem more vivid, as though they are being amplified by speakers.</p><p>Somewhere from a floor below, music begins playing. She recognizes the song immediately, the sounds bringing her back to her pre-med study sessions in her first year on undergrad. An odd association, but something Clarke deeply cares for.</p><p>Bellamy notices the way Clarke’s legs start swinging with more purpose and the way her head sways to the music. Clarke notices him grin lightly, trying to swallow her own smile.</p><p>“I love this song,” is all she offers, allowing herself to relax to the voice of Frank Sinatra as he sings ‘Strangers in the Night’. How fitting.</p><p>Upon a short moment, Bellamy hops off the ledge and onto the surface of the rooftop. She looks at him in question, and a little in disappointment as she assumes he’s leaving.</p><p>But, much to her surprise, he stretches a hand towards her, mumbling a gentle, “Dance with me.”</p><p>She looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. A few moments ago, they were talking about their childhood trauma, and now he’s asking her to dance to a distant melody coming from somewhere below them. It’s laughable.</p><p>“No way,” she mutters, feeling ridiculous at the offer. Bellamy, however, doesn’t budge, waving his outstretched hand insistently.</p><p>“No, Bellamy,” she repeats, letting out a tiny chuckle as she shakes her head in disapproval.</p><p>“Come on, Clarke,” he pleaded, the smirk on his face growing at her obvious discomfort. <em>Damn him.</em></p><p>“What if someone sees?” she reasons, knowing full well it’s the weakest excuse possible. By the quizzical look he gives her, he thinks so too.</p><p>“Please? Just for a little,” he prompts, a pouty look replacing his grin, looking up at her in expectation.</p><p>“Fine, only for a little though,” Clarke reluctantly agrees.</p><p>She couldn’t deny him if she tried.</p><p>Bellamy pumps his hand into the air in victory as she laughs and hops off the ledge to follow him to the center of the rooftop.</p><p>He grabs her hand and pulls her along until they’re standing awkwardly on the concrete, staring at each other like fools.</p><p>She feels as if she’s in high school again. When the only worry she had was whether the cute guy in her class was going to ask her to prom.</p><p>After a few uncomfortable seconds, Bellamy slowly and gently places his hands on her waist, as though giving her an out. She doesn’t take it.</p><p>Her hands find themselves home at the back of his neck, both of their arms hanging loosely around each other’s frames.</p><p>Carefully, trying not to step on anyone’s feet, they start swaying to the music. Clarke’s eyes are trained to the front of his shirt as she almost glares at his undone tie, pink most-certainly covering her cheeks.</p><p>She feels ridiculous. Silly and childish, behaving like a hormone-ridden teenager. They’re not even doing anything, for god’s sake, just dancing. Yet the speed at which her heart beats suggests otherwise.</p><p>Bellamy hums in content, the small breath grazing her cheek and compelling her to look up at him. His soft brown eyes stare into hers, a spark that wasn’t there before lighting up the space between them.</p><p>He towers over her, the heat between them daring to melt her insides, their skin so close yet not close enough.</p><p>Suddenly, she’s being pushed away, swung to her side with only her hand still in his grasp, and before she knows it she’s back in his arms. She lets out a breathy laugh as she jokingly hits him on the chest in payback.</p><p>His eyes glisten as he looks back at her with a huge grin plastered on his face.</p><p>Clarke watches as Bellamy reaches forward to delicately tuck a lock of golden hair behind her ear, the gesture awfully cheesy. She blushes for the umpteenth time this evening, mimicking his motion as she touches the place he had just brushed her hair.</p><p>Suddenly, Bellamy withdraws his hand, pausing his movements and hers along with him. He takes hold of her hand, clutching it so gently it almost hurts, staring at it in alarm.</p><p>Clarke’s grin is wiped away as she realizes what he is looking at. The hand she had raised rests in his much larger one, the still-open gash glistening in the moonlight.</p><p>She tries to snatch it away, but his grip remains persistent.</p><p>“Clarke, what happened?” Bellamy breathes out, his deep-brown orbs meeting hers in worry. She tears her eyes away, shamefully looking down at her feet.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, trying to take her hand away yet again.</p><p>“Clarke,” he warns. She feels his eyes search her face, yet she still doesn’t meet his eyes.</p><p>“As I said, things with my mother got heated.”</p><p>“She did this?” Bellamy almost barks out. She flinches at that. He shrinks away apologetically.</p><p>She shakes her head no, shrugging as she mutters, “Wine glass.”</p><p>He sighs, with relief or pity, she doesn’t know. Then, he looks at her with determination, and as she meets his eyes he gestures to the door leading away from the roof.</p><p>“Come over to my apartment to patch it up. I have a first aid kit.”</p><p>She holds his gaze, unsure. Her mind is sending out all sorts of warning signs, but her heart overrules them this time.</p><p>Finally, with much reluctancy, Clarke nods as he starts walking to the doorway, his hand hovering over the small of her back as he leads her there.</p><p>She doesn’t tell him that she has her own kit in her apartment.</p><p>She doesn’t remind him that she was a pre-med student and she could probably do a better job herself.</p><p>And she definitely doesn’t tell him that her heart is racing faster than humanly possible as his hand rests on her frame, the warmth seeping through the thin material of her shirt and burning into her skin.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Finito :P</p><p>Next chapter will be up within this week &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey! It's me again, back with another chapter.<br/>This one was fun to write since I kind of swayed off of the main storyline. </p>
<p>Enjoy ~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His apartment is like something out of a historical library. Shelves filled with books winding up to the ceiling on almost every wall of the room, papers scattered on the coffee table, counter, floor.</p>
<p>Clarke stands in the middle of his living room, eyes wide and darting around, taking in everything. While she knew he was kind of a nerd, she didn’t expect this. It’s quite seemly, however.</p>
<p>Bellamy stands a little further back, eyeing her cautiously. He rubs his hands together at his front nervously, which Clarke finds endearing. It’s almost as though he’s waiting for her approval.</p>
<p>She grins at him softly, gently patting the soft leather of his couch. “Nice place.”</p>
<p>He chuckles slightly and hangs his head in embarrassment. “I wasn’t expecting company today, so I kind of forgot that it’s a mess. Sorry about that.”</p>
<p>She smirks, glad to see him flustered for a change. Stepping to the side, she eyes the pictures hung on the one empty space above his tv.</p>
<p>A few of them seem to be just him and Octavia, as kids, teenagers, and then adults. In one of them as kids, they’re grinning widely, presumably at the person with the camera, arms hung around each other messily. She smiles softly and wanders to the next few.</p>
<p>A few pictures of his friends, one of him with his colleagues, she assumes, and a bunch of landscapes. She even notices a couple of polaroid photographs, hung on a thin woven rope. <em>He’s a photographer,</em> she notes.</p>
<p>One picture catches her eye, low on the wall, almost unnoticeable. A young woman with long brown hair stands tall, two tiny children, a boy and a girl wrapped around her legs. All three of them have a smile plastered onto their face, beaming at each other.  </p>
<p>“My mother,” Bellamy hushes out, standing much closer to her than previously, so close that she can feel his breath on the side of her next. “One of the only pictures I have of her before… well, you know.”</p>
<p>Clarke nods, suddenly feeling as though she is intruding something personal. Flipping around, she is met with Bellamy’s firm chest. She looks up at him, cheeks redder than she would’ve liked.</p>
<p>Their eyes meet, but no one attempts to make a move. Then, suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic, she steps back.</p>
<p>She flexes the fingers of her left hand, testing her fine motor skills. The stretch aches, but she deems it tolerable. She should’ve known better than to leave it out without patching it up, as the discomfort has now morphed into pain.</p>
<p>At her movement, Bellamy casts his eyes down to her hand, guilt filling them as he remembers the reason she’s here in the first place.</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, right, sorry,” he mumbles out, stepping towards her and taking her hand between his. He lightly grazes his finger on her wound, noticing her flinch as he does.</p>
<p>Gently dropping her hand, he says, “Follow me, the kit is in the bathroom.”</p>
<p>Hesitantly, she follows him to it, making sure to hover back a few steps as she mentally prepares herself for his proximity.</p>
<p><em>She’s acting ridiculous</em>, she grouses at herself, <em>he’s literally just going to patch her gash up, nothing mind-blowing about that. </em></p>
<p>Yet as soon as he steps closer to her when they are in the small room, she realizes that she had good cause to do so.</p>
<p>He tells her to sit on the low counter near the vanity, rummaging through the shelves for the first aid kit. When he pulls it out, he gestures for her hand, analyzing it closely as he holds it.</p>
<p>Heat spreads to her cheeks at the intimacy of this whole situation, immediately regretting agreeing to come up here in the first place. As Bellamy drops to his knees on the carpeted floor to get a better angle, she considers making up an excuse to run away. This is way more difficult than it should be.</p>
<p>He reaches for the rubbing alcohol, gently touching it to her wound to disinfect it. She jerks back and he immediately pulls it away, raising her hand to his lips. Stupidly, she thinks he’s about to kiss it, but instead, he gently blows on the cut, making her face redden impossibly further. Then, when he looks up her from his position on the floor, she just about loses it.</p>
<p>She sees him smirk knowingly as she turns her head and glances away, hands trembling. 

</p><p>To avoid any more embarrassment, she closes her eyes, wallowing in his radiating warmth and letting him do the rest of the job in peace.</p>
<p>He finishes off pretty soon after that, her hand securely wrapped around in gauze and surgical tape. As she examines his handiwork, he rises to his feet. Now towering over her, he grins sheepishly as she looks over the bandaging.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she whispers, smiling and nodding up at him in confirmation that he did well. He lights up immediately, flashing her another toothy grin.</p>
<p>As she stands back up and peers at him, she can’t help but notice the immense height difference between them. No wonder he makes her feel so small, she must be at least two heads shorter than him. Oddly enough, Clarke finds that she doesn’t mind it.</p>
<p>They stand in the tiny bathroom, in awkward silence as she looks at anything but him. <em>What is she supposed to do now?</em></p>
<p>Finally, he decides to break the excruciating silence, “Do you want a beer, maybe?”</p>
<p>A skeptical look takes over her face as she meets his eyes. He retaliates immediately, “Or I could set some tea?”</p>
<p>She grins. “That’d be great.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Clarke groans in frustration as she gets off a call with Raven the next day, throwing her phone at the couch. She rubs her hands over her face, a headache already taking place.</p>
<p>She knew that leaving her art assignment to the last minute was a bad idea, especially when her friends were even more stubborn than herself, which is saying something. She had been given a task to replicate figure drawing outside of class, which meant that she had to find someone to model for her, herself. Technically she could lie and pretend she did, and just use a picture from the internet, but she also needed to document every step of it. So, she decided it would just be easier to find someone to do it for her.</p>
<p>That, however, has proven to be a challenge in itself, since all of her friends coincidentally decided to be busy today. Even Raven, who would usually love to have a portrait drawn of her to feed her ego, said she has plans for the whole day. Clarke should really get more friends.</p>
<p>She takes a seat at the kitchen island, dropping her head to the marble tabletop. <em>What the hell is she supposed to do now?</em></p>
<p>She reaches for her teacup to cool off, sipping at the lukewarm liquid in silence. Then, as she places it back down and stares at it, she is reminded of one other person she could ask. She really shouldn’t, and quite frankly doesn’t really want to, but she has no choice.</p>
<p>So, on an impulse, she grabs her phone and keys and leaves for Bellamy’s apartment.</p>
<p>Last night with him went by smoothly, the easy conversation following the awkwardness of him tending to her hand. She still feels his tingling touch whenever she reminds herself of it. Clarke left promptly after making up an excuse that she had forgotten to feed her turtle. Which was quite pathetic, now that she thinks back to it.</p>
<p>She stumbles up the stairs, her heart pounding in her ears.</p>
<p>As she reaches his apartment, she pulls her hand up to knock on the dark wood door, hesitating slightly. Swallowing down her pride, she taps against it gently, almost hoping he doesn’t hear her.</p>
<p>To her dismay and satisfaction, he opens on the second go, surprise flashing across his features before he breaks into a wide grin.</p>
<p>“Clarke,” he beams, pulling the door completely open and gesturing for her to step inside. She stays put.</p>
<p>“Bellamy,” she voices brightly, nodding her head in acknowledgment, “I, um, was wondering if you could help me out with an art project. It’s kind of last minute and I didn’t know who else to go to.”</p>
<p>“What kind of project? Cause if you think I can do art, you’re going to be extremely disappointed,” he jokes instinctively, leaning his shoulder against the doorway, making him tower over her even further.</p>
<p>“You would have to – well – model for me.”</p>
<p>Bellamy looks at her with a strange look on his face, searching for something in her eyes, though she doesn’t know what.</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>“Okay?”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>Clarke is taken aback at his rapid compliance, her voice hoarse when she stutters out, “Oh. I’ll meet you at my apartment, then?”</p>
<p>Bellamy nods, standing still as she begins to head back into the hall, careful to not look back at him.</p>
<p>When she is halfway down the floor, mind already clouded over with ideas and uncertainty, she hears Bellamy call out, “Wait, Clarke! What apartment number are you?”</p>
<p>“Oh! <em>Right</em>. 12D!”</p>
<p>“Okay! See you soon!”</p>
<p>Clarke scoffs lightly at her negligence, chuckling passively as she reaches her own doorway.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>She sits cross-legged on his couch, around an hour after she’d first left to get her sketchbook and supplies. Bellamy volunteers to put on some tea, probably as a way to diffuse the inevitable tension in the room.</p>
<p>Adjusting her materials and choosing the angle from which she would draw him, she watches him flitter around the kitchen out of the corner of her eye.</p>
<p>She knew this wasn’t a good idea, to begin with, yet she can’t help the fluttering inside her chest as she waits for him to come back into the living room.</p>
<p>After a few moments, he strides in, two mugs filled with boiling water balancing in his hands. As he hands her one of them, she can’t help but notice the way his pronounced biceps stretch the thin material of the tight white t-shirt he is wearing. In fear of getting caught, she buries her nose in her cup, taking a sip of the hot liquid<em>. Focus, Clarke</em>.</p>
<p>“Ok, how do you want me?” Bellamy chirps, smirking, cheeks pinkish.</p>
<p>Clarke sputters at the implication of his words, the drink getting caught in her throat as she tries to breathe. <em>Real smooth.</em></p>
<p>“Um, how about you stand right here, and I’ll adjust you,” she manages, ducking her head slightly as she stands up to meet him at the coffee table separating them.</p>
<p>Clarke gives herself a moment to take him in, his muscular and lean figure a great contrast to the usual subjects that she has had to draw in art school. The skin-tight fabric hugging every inch of him in all the right places, defined forearms exposed, and sculpted jaw clenched. <em>Is it just her or is it getting hotter in here?</em></p>
<p>Raising her hand to his shoulder, she watches as his jaw tenses, in anticipation or fear, she wouldn’t know. She reaches for his arm, grabbing softly and leading it a little further up his hip, allowing it to rest there. She switches sides, tracing her eyes over his chest onto his left arm.</p>
<p>She lifts his hand, ignoring how clammy both of their palms have gotten, and places it onto the back of his neck. Letting her eyes run over his figure once more before meeting his eyes nervously. He looks down at her, an odd expression taking over his features.</p>
<p>Clarke takes a step back to take in his frame. He looks great, of course, but she realizes that she won’t be able to accurately transfer him onto a page. The shirt limits the amount of definition she would be able to portray.</p>
<p>Hesitantly, she prods, regretting the words as soon as they leave her mouth, “Bellamy, would you mind taking your shirt off?”</p>
<p>Taken aback, he gapes at her like a fish.</p>
<p>Quickly, she clarifies, “I just can’t see the way your muscles line with it on. So, I’d have a clearer view if you, well, took it off.” She blushes immediately after hearing her bluntness, once again regretting asking him to do this for her.</p>
<p>“I, uh – sure.”</p>
<p>Bellamy reaches behind his neck for the shirt, pulling it over his head in a swift motion that lets Clarke see the way his abdomen flexes with the movement as he resumes his previous position. She can’t help but stare at his extremely well-defined torso, the abdominal muscles prominent. A blush coats her cheeks as she continues staring at him, which would’ve been fine since it’s kind of the whole idea, except for the fact that she didn’t even do as much as lift her pencil or place the sketchpad on her lap.</p>
<p>Finally looking up at his face to avoiding looking like a fool, she’s met with uncertainty and heat glistening in his eyes. In reassurance, she smiles softly, standing up from her spot on the couch to finally begin her sketch. She makes sure to keep a small distance to keep her thoughts at bay.</p>
<p>The first few minutes fly by quite fine, the rough outline of his body already plastered on her page. But as soon as she steps closer, her heart resumes its’ somersaults and the heat rises to her face once more. <em>God damn it, Clarke, pull it together.</em></p>
<p>She finds herself face to face with Bellamy, a mere few inches separating their chests.</p>
<p>They stare at each other, neither one backing down from what now seems like a staring competition.</p>
<p>The warm brown of his eyes is mesmerizing, the honey hues within them distracting her from what is supposed to be an assignment she needs to get done by tomorrow. The smell of petrichor and earth emanating from him, the scent intoxicating.</p>
<p>Unaware of what she’s doing, Clarke lifts her pencil and touches it to the center of his abdomen, the sharp tip tracing the natural lines of his frame. He shudders beneath it, goosebumps rising along his skin. The movement persuades her to trail further along his body.</p>
<p>She leads her pencil up his forearms and biceps, as though trying to memorize every nook and cranny in her way. She watches him shiver every time she grazes a sensitive pressure point.</p>
<p>Quite frankly, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s been surprising herself recently, and right now is not an exception. This is definitely beyond what she’d planned, but at this moment she can’t bring herself to care.</p>
<p>And judging from the lack of intervention on Bellamy’s behalf, he doesn’t seem to mind either. She might even go further and say he seems to be enjoying it.</p>
<p>She meets his eyes as she reaches his collarbone, watching as he gazes at her, his hooded eyelids fluttering now and then. <em>It’s definitely gotten hotter in here.</em></p>
<p>Finally, she pulls away slightly, trying to resume the sketch with shaking hands, her breaths now coming out short and ragged. This proves to be difficult when someone extremely attractive is staring at you mindlessly.</p>
<p>His piercing gaze raises goosebumps down her neck and spine as she tries to focus on completing the next sketch. This is way more difficult than she’d expected.</p>
<p>Adding the finishing touches, she avoids his eyes and starts to circle him. She reaches his side, the new angle providing her with a great view of his gorgeous side profile. She swallows tightly and continues to scratch away at her page. She notices the slight tension in his shoulders as she tilts her head further to his backside.</p>
<p>Then, with sweaty shaking hands, she starts to shuffle to work on the rearview of his frame, but as soon as she takes a step to face his back, Bellamy jerks to the side, knocking her over with the sudden movement.</p>
<p>Clarke stumbles forward, her book bag tangling with her feet as she lifts her hands to prepare for impact with the floor. That impact, however, is interrupted with a strong warmth scooping her into his arms, large hands landing to rest on her hips.</p>
<p>He holds her against his chest as she catches her breath, her heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears. She buries her face in his shoulder, inhaling his woody essence as she wills her breathing to go back to normal.</p>
<p>She shifts boldly in his hold, placing her hands against his chest lightly. Clarke feels him breathe in deeply, a content sigh leaving his lips.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Bellamy exhales, arms still wrapped around her securely, unwilling to let go.</p>
<p>She nods curtly in reply, eyes focused on the thin layer of sweat coating his collar bone. His presence is compelling in the best way possible, his heat threatening to devour her entirely.</p>
<p>The tension in his muscles doesn’t subside, the push of his chin still insistent on the top of her head.</p>
<p>As much as would love to stay in his embrace, which shouldn’t be the case in the first place, she can’t keep her mind off of the force with which he pushed her away initially.</p>
<p>She trails her eyes back over his shoulder and onto his back, curiosity getting the better of her.</p>
<p>Bellamy flinches as he notices her do so, finally pulling her away from him, eyes downcast. She trains her eyes on him for a few more seconds, searching for something in his facial features.</p>
<p>When they come back empty, she pulls away from him entirely.</p>
<p>They stand in complete silence for a moment, neither of them gathering enough courage to look the other in the eye. Clarke doesn’t even understand why that is, simply mirroring his posture in an attempt to comprehend it.</p>
<p>Defeated, she snatches her sketchbook up and slides it across the coffee table, snapping away from him as she stumbles yet again before facing him with crossed arms in a defensive position on her chest.</p>
<p>Her reddened face betrays her supposed calm demeanor, as she looks at anything but him.</p>
<p>Bellamy takes the hint as it is, bending down to retrieve his shirt, which was hastily disregarded on the oakwood floor. He stretches the material over his frame, and Clarke tries her best not to pay attention to his toned stomach.</p>
<p>He straightens back up, tucking his shirt into his dark-wash jeans before patting them down awkwardly. <em>When did they get here?</em></p>
<p>Huffing out a breath, he turns his back to her, adding as an afterthought, “I hope you got what you needed.”</p>
<p>She nods tightly in response, whispering a tiny ‘thanks’.</p>
<p>When she doesn’t make a move to do anything else, he nods his head once more and staggers around the small coffee table separating them to head down the hallway.</p>
<p>Her feet seem to be glued to the floor. She doesn’t stop him.</p>
<p>She stares at him with a somber look on her face, eyes following him as he reaches for the door handle.</p>
<p>Bellamy looks back at her. Blue on brown, both filled with doubt and something neither of them can place.</p>
<p>Then, he shakes his head in finality, turning the knob and shuffling out of the doorway.</p>
<p>Just as he turns away, he calls hesitantly, almost like a peace offering, “I’ll see you,” and practically topples down the stairs.</p>
<p>They both almost miss the strangled way his name leaves her lips moments after, the whisper echoing throughout the empty space.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That's it ~</p>
<p>The next chapter is my favorite, so stay tuned. :))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all!<br/>New chapter is up.<br/>This one has an angsty feel, but I think it's necessary to balance out the fluff of the next one.</p>
<p>Enjoy ~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, I know! We’re both so excited. He was a bit of a surprise but, it’s okay, Monty and I both like surprises,” Harper chirps, resting her hand on her tiny baby bump as she beams at the rest of the group.</p>
<p>Clarke sits with her friends in a booth at a local café near her university, catching up after class. They had decided to meet for brunch, as most of them were too busy and tired to make dinner plans. She couldn’t blame them, it has been a hell of a month.</p>
<p>She sits silently next to Raven, the latter engrossed in a debate with Octavia over something to do with self-defense classes. Clarke is too busy debating with herself, staring mindlessly at her phone as she tries to come up with a good reason to text Bellamy.</p>
<p>Its been a week or so since their last meeting. The most any of them has done to contact the other is a simple wave when they notice each other in the apartment lobby at the same time, which isn’t much considering that that’s happened only once.</p>
<p>After Bellamy left that night, Clarke had slumped in her couch and binge-watched a whole season of Game of Thrones, shoveling insane amounts of ice-cream in her mouth as she tried not to wallow in her self-pity.</p>
<p>It’s quite pathetic if you think about it: a twenty-two-year-old in university, waddled in blankets and pillows, hunched over a laptop and bowl of snacks. Clarke tries not to think about it too much.</p>
<p>She remembers finding a scrunched up napkin later that night, discarded on the floor in a rush, a messy scrawl of numbers and a tiny ‘B’ scribbled on it. She remembers the sad sigh of relief she’d breathed out and the tiny smile that had grazed her face after that. She honestly feels like a high-schooler again.</p>
<p>After numerous close calls and impulsive texting, she had failed to send Bellamy a message, her embarrassment getting the better of her.</p>
<p>Even now, she can’t seem to figure out what to text him. A simple ‘hey’ doesn’t feel like it’s enough.</p>
<p>“Clarke!”</p>
<p>She snaps her head up to look at Octavia, who is staring at her with a funny expression on her face.</p>
<p>“We’ve called you like five times now. You okay?” she says, nudging her foot against hers under the table.</p>
<p>“Yeah, of course, I am,” she dismisses, turning her attention back to the group as she glances away from her phone screen.</p>
<p>“Okay, good,” Octavia nods, leaning forward on her elbows and staring at Clarke intently. “I was just telling Harper and Raven about that mysterious guy in your building. How’re things going with him?”</p>
<p>“Clarke! You’ve got a guy up your sleeve and you didn’t think to tell me?” Raven pipes up, crossing her arms in mock-offense.</p>
<p>“I’m sure she just forgot to mention it. Right, Clarke?” Harpers coaxes gently as an attempt to save her from further interrogation. Harper always was the mediator.</p>
<p>Clarke rolls her eyes before replying, “I didn’t tell you because it isn’t a big deal. We’re just friends… of sorts.”</p>
<p>“Hah! ‘Of sorts’, yeah right. Sorry to break it to you, but you seem to be in denial,” Raven snorts, bumping her shoulder against Clarke’s as the latter glares at her friend.</p>
<p>“Have you guys hooked up yet?”</p>
<p>“Raven!”</p>
<p>Raven just cackles hysterically, turning away to sip at her iced coffee innocently.</p>
<p>“No, we haven’t ‘hooked up’,” Clarke spluttered, heat rising in her cheeks. “We aren’t even dating, for god’s sake. It’s complicated,” she finishes lamely, knowing full well that her friends aren’t buying it.</p>
<p>She contemplates telling them about what happened last week but decides against it to avoid even more questions.</p>
<p>“Right, that’s what they all say,” Octavia pipes in, grinning ear to ear and sending her a teasing wink.</p>
<p>Clarke was never the one to share much about her love life, or anything for that matter. She liked to listen instead, and occasionally pipe in with her opinions. There wasn’t much to say on that topic either. The last relationship she had was with a girl in her biochemistry class, which wasn’t even much of a relationship, considering they went out for a month and mostly just hooked up.</p>
<p>It’s not like she’s sworn off dating, she just always seemed to have better things to focus on.</p>
<p>Which sounds like a really weak excuse, but it’s the truth.</p>
<p>Once the conversation had traced back to Harper’s unborn baby, and her friends had decided to have mercy on her, Clarke slips out of the booth to freshen up and catch some fresh air.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think twice before leaving all her things at the table, sketchbook, and phone included. So, as she’s ordering a drink at the front of the café, she doesn’t notice Octavia flip through her sketches.</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t notice her friend’s eye latch on to a specific page. And she definitely doesn’t notice Octavia’s eyes widen as she takes in the drawings of her brother, the resemblance uncanny.</p>
<p>Damn Clarke for being that much of a perfectionist; she even took time to draw his face. A page-full of it, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Later that night, Clarke sits at her desk and stares blankly at the screen of her laptop. It must be one o’clock already, judging by the way her eyes burn from the screen light and the streetlamps outside seem to burn through her skull.</p>
<p>She is huddled amidst a thousand fluffy blankets, eyes squinted. She must look insane.</p>
<p>Sleep hasn’t come easy to her this week, the nightmares remaining persistent and unavoidable. So, she deems it better to simply not go to sleep. Instead, she works on her countless essays and projects that never seem to stop piling up.</p>
<p>The street is silent, which is unusual for this time of night. And the air is still, which is also a surprise.</p>
<p>A loud crash comes from her balcony, the sudden sound raising goosebumps along Clarke’s arms. Reluctantly, she stands and shuffles over closer to her balcony. Another crash sounds from the floor above her.</p>
<p>She had let the door of her tiny balcony stay open, to let the air move at least a little since it was a little stuffy. She slides it open all the way and stands at the center of it, tilting her head up to glance at her neighbor’s one.</p>
<p>She hears another scattered thud and a series of angered shouts, the words unrecognizable but the deep voice that utters it is clear as day.</p>
<p>“Fuck!” is the only thing she can decipher from his repetitive mutterings.</p>
<p>“Bellamy…?” Clarke whispers, leaning against the cool railing and staring up at his balcony. The lights are out, and the night is suddenly silent.</p>
<p>A few long seconds pass and Clarke is ready to walk away in defeat. As a last-second decision, she reaches for her phone in her back pocket, sliding it out and searching for Bellamy’s contact.</p>
<p>Her fingers hover over the tiny keyboard, lightly shaking, either from the cold or nervousness.</p>
<p>Finally, she types up ‘u okay?’ and fingers the send button in thought. <em>He might not even have his phone around, </em>she reasons,<em> he probably wouldn’t answer anyway. </em></p>
<p>Then, on an impulse, she presses send and stares at the tiny ‘delivered’ written in the corner.</p>
<p>She stares at the message, her eyes almost burning a hole through the screen. She almost jumps up at the tiny bubble that appears, the ‘delivered’ morphing to ‘read’.</p>
<p>And as soon as they appear, they stop. She glares at the read receipt before tossing her phone across the room onto her bed.</p>
<p>
  <em>Fine, then.</em>
</p>
<p>As much as she wants to be upset at it, she seems to be more concerned about him.</p>
<p>“Clarke?” comes his hoarse voice above her, cracking at the end.</p>
<p>Her head snaps upward, meeting the outline of his head and unruly curls. She cannot see his face from this angle, but she doesn’t miss the way his hands grip the railing as though he’s trying to bend the metal.</p>
<p>“Are you… okay?” she says hesitantly, unsure of where they stand after last week. Maybe she shouldn’t voice her concern.</p>
<p>He doesn’t answer.</p>
<p>Taking a deep breath, she risks it, “Do you want to…um -–”, cringing instantly at how stupid she sounds, “--roof?” she manages at last. After a few seconds, his deep voice fills the space once more.</p>
<p>“Okay."</p>
<p>“Okay,” she echoes back before stumbling back into her bedroom, hastily tugging on a sweater, and heading for the rooftop.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Clarke leans against the edging of the ledges awkwardly, waiting for Bellamy for what seems to be almost half an hour. Tugging down the sleeves of her knit sweater down, she huffs. <em>Maybe he changed his mind.</em></p>
<p>Just as she straightens back up and takes a step to go back, she hears the familiar clang of the metal door as it slides open and Bellamy shuffles out.</p>
<p>He is wearing a thin fleece and pajama pants, and his hair is as messy as ever, the raven locks framing his face. She can’t help but notice how good he looks, despite the obvious tension in his body.</p>
<p>She opens her mouth to say something, but just as she does, he takes three long strides towards her and envelops her in a warm hug.</p>
<p>Her reflex is to wrap her arms back around him, but he holds her with such force, she can barely move her at all. His face is tucked in the crook of her neck, breathing her in as if he hasn’t known air until now.</p>
<p>She stays still, whispering out nothings as she manages to wind a hand behind his neck, playing with the short hair at the nape of it. She doesn’t question his need for her, just lets him find the comfort he seeks.</p>
<p>They stand at the center of the rooftop as they had so many nights ago, quiet and somehow at peace, and the only thing disrupting the serenity are his choked breaths.</p>
<p>They are still, as though frozen in time. The air is too, and if it weren’t for the cold night, his warmth would’ve been suffocating.</p>
<p>She can feel the slight tremble of his fingers at her spine, calmly tracing patterns on his back with her own.</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t know what happened, and quite frankly, she doesn’t need to. All that matters to her right now is giving him the comfort he needs.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he pulls his face away.</p>
<p>Although it is dark, and the only thing illuminating their faces is the moon, she can see the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t know why, but her heart aches for him.</p>
<p>As she draws her own eyes to his, he looks down at what seems like sheepishness. She falters at that.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” she mumbles into his chest as he slowly begins to untangle his arms from around her waist. He doesn’t meet her eyes, but he keeps his hands close to hers.</p>
<p>He looks like a child that had just done something he knows he is going to get in trouble for. The weary glances and slumped shoulders, defeat rolling off of him in waves, hiding his wet eyes as though to prove he’s tough.</p>
<p>Clarke wishes she could fix it. Find whatever is haunting him and tear it away. He doesn’t deserve the pain.</p>
<p>“Bellamy,” she says, pulling her hands up to his cheeks. She palms the light stubble on his chin, bravely stroking his jaw. She doesn’t know where she had gained the courage, but it seems like she doesn’t know most things recently.</p>
<p>He leans into her soft touch, and she feels another wave of sadness at the gentleness.</p>
<p>“Bellamy, look at me.”</p>
<p>So, he does. She takes in the dark circles around his eyes, the dark blue matching the night sky. They are laced with fear and grief.</p>
<p>“It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”</p>
<p>At that, he seems to let go of whatever he was holding back, and his body relaxes. Her reassurance is like a promise. To what, she doesn’t know.</p>
<p>He doesn’t say anything, and it’s not that he needs to.</p>
<p>They walk over to their ledge –- she doesn’t seem to recall when it became <em>theirs</em>, though –- and settle in closely.</p>
<p>Bellamy doesn’t let go of her for a moment, always keeping a hand on her arm or leg. She finds that she likes it.</p>
<p>The night seems different.</p>
<p>The air shifts constantly; warm and cold, still and moving, light and heavy. The street below which their feet dangle is dimmer, missing a few of the streetlights. Instead of the usual ruffling of leaves or insects, a white-noise seems to surround them.</p>
<p>It’s almost as though the world died down to focus on just them tonight.</p>
<p>Clarke throws small glances at Bellamy once in a while, as if to check if he’s still there. As if the warmth of his hand on her thigh isn’t enough of an indicator. He sits hunched over, eyes unfocused, and faced forward.</p>
<p>She doesn’t question it. If he wanted to tell her, he would.</p>
<p>As if reading her thoughts, he starts.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Clarke." Her name rolls off his tongue like honey. “I tried to sleep.”</p>
<p>He says it so simply, yet she can see what he means when he says that.</p>
<p>He tries to sleep but can’t. The nightmares didn’t go away. He tries to chase them away but can't. It’s all in that simple phrase.</p>
<p>“He is always there. He doesn’t hit me in my nightmares, because that would be too easy. Instead, he goes for my mom or Octavia. And I can’t do anything because I can’t move. So I stand merely a meter away, watching as he beats them to death. And I can’t do anything to save them.”</p>
<p>His voice breaks at the last word, hand clutching Clarke’s thigh tighter.</p>
<p>“I just can’t take it anymore. It was one thing to hurt me but seeing him do it to them is so much harder,” he gets out, breaths getting quicker.</p>
<p>Clarke hurts so much for him. She wishes she could take the pain away. But all she can do is hold him, for as long as he needs.</p>
<p>She takes his shaking calloused hands in hers, running her fingers over the million tiny scars covering them. Shifting closer to him, she brings them to her face, pressing her lips over his knuckles.</p>
<p>He lets out a shaky breath, bringing his head to rest on top of hers, tucking his chin over her forehead.</p>
<p>She lets him envelop her in his arms once more, giving him the control, he is trying so hard to find, one way or another. Here, in his embrace, she feels at home.</p>
<p>They stay like that until Clarke can feel the tips of her fingers getting numb, the cold tearing through Bellamy’s warmth. She shivers involuntarily now and then, the movement shaking both of their bodies.</p>
<p>Reluctantly, she begins to pull away from him slowly as the hour reaches half-past three. She shrugs her sweater firmer on her body and wraps her arms around her torso to replace where his hands have just been. It doesn’t feel as great.</p>
<p>Bellamy glances at her in question, his eyes betraying the stillness of his frame, laced with disappointment. She leans over the ledge to stand herself up.</p>
<p>“You should try to get some sleep,” she says, although she knows full well he likely won’t this night. The words seem like a goodbye, although she doesn’t make a move to stand back up.</p>
<p>In response, he ducks his head into her shoulder. She chuckles lightly at the innocence of it. Even sitting down, he is towering over her, yet the way he’s nestled against her shoulder suggests the opposite.</p>
<p>She adjusts her legs slightly, realizing she’s too close to the edge. At the disturbance, Bellamy’s head snaps up, eyes alarmed.</p>
<p>“Stay with me tonight.”</p>
<p>He says it with so much hope, Clarke struggles to say no. He must’ve thought she was going to leave, the fool.</p>
<p>“I’m not going anywhere.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>They find themselves at his apartment a little later. Clarke knows she has to get back to her own place, since it nearing to four in the morning, and her head isn’t going to thank her for how late she’s staying up. Yet, his presence is compelling her to hang back a little.</p>
<p>“Bellamy…” she starts, deciding to break it to him. The longer she stays, the harder it will be to leave.</p>
<p>“Clarke.”</p>
<p>She sighs at his stubbornness. He must know what she’s going to say.</p>
<p>“I have to get back,” she says, making sure to convey how much she doesn’t want to as she mutters the words.</p>
<p>Instantly, the tension in his form is back, and he starts glaring at the mug he’s holding. He doesn’t reply, just simply avoids her eyes, ignoring her as if she hadn’t said anything at all.</p>
<p>Then, “Stay with me tonight.”</p>
<p>He says it with so much confidence, it’s a stark contrast to the way he’s said the same words a little time ago. Now, she understands the implications in his words.</p>
<p>She meets his eyes in uncertainty, her hesitance made loud and clear.</p>
<p>“You can take my bed, and I’ll take the couch. We don’t have to do anything. Please, just -– just stay here tonight,” he rambles on, voice filling with desperation as his knuckles turn white from how hard he’s gripping the tableware. “Please, Clarke.”</p>
<p>She rubs her forearms subconsciously, eyes trailing skeptically over the worn couch in the center of his living room. “I don’t know…”</p>
<p>“Clarke,” he says, and the desperation is no longer hidden.</p>
<p>She glances back at his, at his almost crazed eyes, the dark circles taunting her as she tries to come up with a decision. She looks at a single curl sticking out over his forehead, resisting the strangest urge to tuck it away.</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>He is shocked. His mouth nearly hangs open, and she can almost hear the gears churning in his head.</p>
<p>She is shocked at her keenness, too. It seems that she’s surprised at most things she does around him. <em>Must be the unruly curls.</em></p>
<p>He swallows tightly, “Okay.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, though. I’ll take the couch.” It looks severely uncomfortable, but Clarke decides she can tolerate it for one night.</p>
<p>“Absolutely not. I’ll take the couch.”</p>
<p>“Bellamy—”</p>
<p>“Clarke—”</p>
<p>They stare at each other heatedly. <em>Damn them for being so stubborn.</em></p>
<p>Finally, Clarke sighs. “We’ll share the bed. No one is going to sleep on that monstrosity of a couch.”</p>
<p>It’s true, the couch looks terrifying. Compared to the rest of the classy furniture, it sticks out like a sore thumb. It mustn’t feel as great either.</p>
<p>Bellamy swallows again, nodding his head curtly. Clarke mimics him.</p>
<p>Then, he stalks over and places a hand on the small of her back, prodding her slightly as they make their way to his bedroom.</p>
<p>His bedroom, much like the rest of his home, is covered with bookshelves and paper. A dark comforter is thrown over a double bed in the center of his room.</p>
<p>He leads her halfway there, letting her settle in at her own pace, as he leans over to adjust the covers awkwardly. Then, he rests on top of the covers and stares at her expectantly.</p>
<p>She gets in her side of the bed, getting under the covers despite the warmth of the room. Bellamy does the same and reaches over to switch off the tiny night lamp on his bedside table.</p>
<p>They lie silently in the dark, their quiet breaths the only sound filling it. They are side by side, their clothed shoulders millimeters away from touching.</p>
<p>After a few long moments, Bellamy huffs out a tiny breath and sits up to tug off his shirt. Clarke doesn’t question it since it’s suddenly warm in the room. She tries her best not to look over as he does so.</p>
<p>“Bellamy..?” she reaches her hand over as he settles back in, her hand grazing a patch of rough skin. He flinches harshly as she does, shrugging away from her and making sure his back is facing the other way.</p>
<p>Clarke rises and looks at him in questions, starting to put the pieces together. The way he reacted is the same as the night she was sketching him, the sound escaping his mouth then and now identical.</p>
<p>Propping herself up on her elbows, she almost commands, “Bellamy, show me your back.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t budge.</p>
<p>“Bell—”</p>
<p>The bed dips as he flips the switch of the lamp on, turning to face her with a pained expression. She softens her features as she takes in the fear in his eyes and furrowed brows. She finds it ridiculous that he thinks she would judge him.</p>
<p>Knowing that Clarke won’t back down, he turns his body slightly, shifting to let her get a full view of his back.</p>
<p>“Oh, Bellamy…”</p>
<p>Angry scars coat his back, the white lines traveling across his shoulders and down his spine. They are all healed over, the skin pale and glossy. Battle scars, that must have been as painful as they look.</p>
<p>She feels anger boil in her chest.</p>
<p>Anger at the monster that has inflicted these upon Bellamy. Angry at herself for being so rash and inconsiderate. Angry at the world for letting something so precious be harmed so much.</p>
<p>Bellamy must mistake her silence for disgust, as he punches the switch once more to let the darkness envelop them. He lies back down, this time further away from Clarke, making as much space between them as possible.</p>
<p>Clarke crawls over to him and lets her head fall onto his bare chest, her arms winding around his torso. He relaxes as he takes in her embrace, one hand coming to rest on her lower back.</p>
<p>“The worst nights… he liked to get out a belt. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it ended like this. He only ever used it on my back, to make it easier to hide from my mother. Even invested in a long-sleeved shirt for me. Made sure to never leave tracks in the places others might see.”</p>
<p>She remains silent, knowing her words will betray her if she speaks. She cannot express how much hatred she feels for the man Bellamy speaks of, even if she has never met the asshole before.</p>
<p>She tugs him closer in response, most of her body now resting on top of his. He lets out a deep breath, no longer flinching at her touch.</p>
<p>And so, they drift into a peaceful silence, the topic left alone for the moment.</p>
<p>Eventually, Bellamy’s breathing evens out as sleep comes over him, and Clarke can only hope that he will have a restful night. She prays that she could chase the nightmares away.</p>
<p>She doesn’t know when this became easy. When the awkward chatter turned into deep conversations. When the lights touches and glances turned to heat and comfort.</p>
<p>Some time ago, she would’ve never thought she’d come to trust someone as deeply as she does Bellamy. That trust was reserved for Wells, and once was for her father. Yet, as she rests her cheek on his warm chest and lets herself wallow in the sense of security he brings her, she finds that she doesn’t care.</p>
<p>So, instead of searching for answers she might never get, she lets herself drift off.</p>
<p>She lets Bellamy’s steady heartbeat lull her to sleep, the sound seemingly holding all the answers she will ever need, and the promises that are yet to be made.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for the support, the next chapter will be up by the end of this week.<br/>Prepare for some long-awaited fluff ~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey there!<br/>Sorry for the slight delay, I've been keeping busy at home despite the quarantine.<br/>Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, cause it's probably one of my favorites and I really enjoyed writing it.<br/>Tooth-rotting fluff, and all that :P</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke wakes up in the clouds.</p>
<p>Streams of white heat envelop her body, surrounded by a softness that could only be from heaven itself. A low hum comes from somewhere around her, accompanied by birds chirping away outside.</p>
<p>She sighs contently, pulling the solid warmth under her head closer to her as she breathes it in. The sweet scent fills her nostrils, forcing her mind to drift into oblivion once more.</p>
<p>She could stay here forever. If only her bladder cooperated.</p>
<p>Reluctantly, she opens her eyes a tad bit, averting them from the sunshine peering in through the blinds. She is met with soft bronze skin in her peripheral vision, and a blanket covering the rest of it and she included.</p>
<p>Instantly, she remembers the night before. Or rather, who she is lying on top of at the moment.</p>
<p>Somehow, during the night, Bellamy’s legs tangled with hers under the thin sheets, and both their arms had winded around each other’s waists. She now lies completely on top of him, using his frame as a makeshift pillow.</p>
<p>Oh, what she wouldn’t give to stay in this position for a while longer. The alarm clock on Bellamy’s bedside table reads 10 o’clock, however. Clarke glares at red digits as they stare back at her, mocking.</p>
<p>Gently tipping her head back, she glances at Bellamy’s face.</p>
<p>His eyes are shut, eyelids twitching gently every so often. His nose scrunches up lightly when the sunlight hits them. The freckles coating his cheeks and forehead glow in the light and the tiny stubble on his chin draws her eyes further down. His chest is still bare, giving Clarke a perfect view of his toned muscles and golden skin.</p>
<p>He’s definitely a sight for sore eyes.</p>
<p>His arms are wrapped around her shoulders and stomach, but as much as she loves the feeling of being held so closely, she knows they have to get up sooner or later.</p>
<p>As if on cue, Bellamy’s eye flutter open, flying around the ceiling for a moment before bringing them down to focus on her. He watches her lazily from the corner of his eyes, smirking lopsidedly. She can’t help but notice how adorable he looks, the giddy smile tugging on his lips, making the corners of his mouth crinkle up.</p>
<p>“Morning, princess,” he mutters, before letting his eyes droop closed once more. He tightens his arms around her as he does. Clarke wills the butterflies in her stomach to disappear.</p>
<p>“Morning,” she whispers, lightly trying to pull back. Bellamy doesn’t budge, as she finds herself grinning at that. “No nightmares, huh?”</p>
<p>She didn’t wake during the night, not once. And judging by that, she assumes Bellamy had just as much of a peaceful night.</p>
<p>“Nope,” he hums, and the sound vibrates through his chest where she presses her ear on it. “You worked like magic.”</p>
<p>She laughs into his shoulder, a strange warm feeling filling her chest and cheeks.</p>
<p>Clarke decides to play along, “Guess you’ll have to coax me into your bed more often.”</p>
<p>Bellamy lets out a throaty laugh, “If I remember correctly, you went willingly.”</p>
<p>“Touché,” she throws back, trying to hide her grin in his warm skin. She lightly presses her mouth onto his bare shoulder as she does, feeling Bellamy shudder in response.</p>
<p>She doesn’t try to understand the warmth she feels at their exchange, or why she can’t seem to stop smiling. It feels as if they got away with something, and perhaps they did.</p>
<p>“Bellamy!” comes a shrill voice from somewhere in his apartment.</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes widen as she recognizes Octavia’s shout. She knows she should probably pull away from Bellamy, yet they both seem to be glued to the spot.</p>
<p>“Bell—”</p>
<p>Octavia freezes in the entryway, having slammed open the door. She stands still, mouth hanging open and eyes as wide as saucers.</p>
<p>“What. The Fuck.”</p>
<p>She has a look of either disgust or astonishment smeared across her face. Clarke guesses that it’s probably both.</p>
<p>Her face is burning from the heat that has risen to her cheeks, and her blood has run ice cold. Unknowing of what else to do, and against her better judgment to just pull away from Bellamy, she buries her nose in his chest and tightly shuts her eyes, trying to hide the redness of her face.</p>
<p>Bellamy mimics her, burying his face in Clarke’s gold curls sprawled all over his neck. He breathes her in, completely disregarding Octavia’s presence.</p>
<p>It’s almost comical. She still stands there, arms now flailing exasperatedly at her sides.</p>
<p>Clarke groans into his skin. “It’s not what it looks like.”</p>
<p>The excuse doesn’t slide. Obviously.</p>
<p>And the fact that the sheets are covering most of their bodies, and Bellamy is shirtless under them, really doesn’t help her cause.</p>
<p>Clarke dares to peek out from below, catching Octavia’s quizzical look. She no longer looks disgusted, just standing with a blank expression on her face.</p>
<p>Clarke watches as it morphs into a wide smirk, and the sibling crosses her arms in an ‘I rest my case’ stance.</p>
<p>“I fucking knew it,” she cackles, throwing her head back.</p>
<p>Strange relief courses through Clarke’s body as she relaxes into Bellamy once more, this time more aware of how close they’re lying together. <em>What exactly does she know?</em></p>
<p>Octavia clearly doesn’t get the hint, still standing in the doorway, practically gloating.</p>
<p>Then, when Clarke feels Bellamy shift his hand below her waist, Octavia laughs once more and exclaims, “Okay, okay! I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”</p>
<p>Bellamy must’ve flipped her off, judging by how smug he looks when he peers down at her.</p>
<p>“Call me later!” Octavia yells as she slams their door, adding in as an afterthought, “Love the sketches, by the way, Clarke! Very renaissance.”</p>
<p>Clarke gets impossibly redder, breathing in deeply as she tries to swallow the embarrassment<em>. How the hell did she see the drawings?</em></p>
<p>“Get lost!” Bellamy shouts back, almost deafening Clarke in the process.</p>
<p>In a kind of apology, he trails his hand over her back and into her curls, gently tugging on a loose one.</p>
<p>Clarke shivers shamelessly.</p>
<p>With Octavia gone, they settle back in, letting themselves soak in each other’s warmth for a while longer. Her bladder is killing her at this point, but she can't seem to tell him to let go. It’s been so long since she’d been held.</p>
<p>Once again, Bellamy reads her mind. “Do you want breakfast?” he mumbles, voice still hoarse with sleep.</p>
<p>Clarke nods lightly into his arm, trying to hide the small grazing her lips.</p>
<p>Bellamy laughs, “You do know we have to get up for that, right?”</p>
<p>“Don’t remind me,” she groans, the sound muffled by his skin.</p>
<p>Reluctantly, they manage to get up, the pleasant heat fading as Clarke tip-toes into the bathroom.</p>
<p>She glances in the mirror, a different person staring back at her altogether. The girl she sees looks happy, well-rested. The eye bags lighter than she’s used to seeing.</p>
<p>She decides she likes this version of herself.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>They sit in a comfortable silence as she shovels down her scrambled eggs. Bellamy grins at her from the corner of his eyes.</p>
<p>She loves it. It’s as simple as that.</p>
<p>The birds are singing out the tiny window in the kitchen, the sunlight bouncing off to create little streaks on the wall.</p>
<p>She doesn’t want it to end.</p>
<p>When they finish up, she volunteers to wash the dishes. But, like the gentleman he is, he shrugs it away and sets her a cup of coffee instead.</p>
<p>Clarke sips on her coffee as she watches him work at the sink.</p>
<p>She’s glad he’s decided to ditch the shirt, tracing his muscles with her eyes without any shame. And if he caught her glance a couple of times, she doesn’t bring herself to care.</p>
<p>When they stand in the living room, leaning on the couch, he smiles at her in a way that makes her heart skip a beat.</p>
<p>And then, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down at his feet, he falters.</p>
<p>“I should go,” she draws out, conveying how much she doesn’t want to. But its nearing 1 o’clock and the pile of work on her desk back home isn’t going anywhere any time soon.</p>
<p>He shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Bellamy…”</p>
<p>“Go on a date with me.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Let me take you on a date,” he repeats, suddenly striding towards her until they are face to face. Or more like chest to face, since he towers over her.</p>
<p>When she doesn’t reply immediately, he continues, “It would be nice. We could go to a restaurant or something, and then take a walk in the park. Or look at the sky. I hear it’s going to be clear tonight, so we could—”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>She grins at his shocked face as if she could have said anything other than yes. This man is impossible to say no to.</p>
<p>“We’re doing this a little backward, don’t you think?” she grins, tucking her hands into her short-pockets. First, they spend a whole night together, and now they’re going on a date.  It’s supposed to be the other way round.</p>
<p>“We’re special,” he chirps, throwing on a toothy grin and leaning further towards her until she can feel his breath at the side of her head.</p>
<p>Clarke decides that she likes being special.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“No, you didn’t!”</p>
<p>“I did! I swear!”</p>
<p>Clarke cackles like a maniac in the empty street, the sound echoing around them. Bellamy bumps her shoulder playfully as they laugh. His laugh is like honey, smooth and sweet, and she never wants it to end.</p>
<p>Promptly after Clarke had agreed to go out with Bellamy, she’d gone down to her apartment to spend some time alone before their date, finishing some last-minute school work and thinking.</p>
<p>For some reason, she was nervous. It’s just Bellamy, she had reminded herself.</p>
<p>And yet it was <em>Bellamy</em>. Her handsome freckled neighbor, her best friend’s brother, her silly crush—Bellamy. And that was enough of a reason to worry, she supposed.</p>
<p>Clarke had spent about half an hour deciding what to wear, before giving up and throwing on a V-neck sweater and some dark-wash jeans and convincing herself she didn’t care. Although she most certainly did.</p>
<p>Bellamy, like the gentleman he is, had picked her up from her apartment, and together they walked across the street to an Italian restaurant. The most classic option for a first date.</p>
<p>She supposed that they needed some normality in their lives sometimes.</p>
<p>Now, a few hours away from midnight, they are walking aimlessly around the park they had wanted to go to but didn’t get the chance to since it was closed.</p>
<p>After being kicked out as soon as they arrived there since it was closing, like the idiots they are, they decided to circle around its perimeter. Mainly to annoy the security guard that is standing at its gate.</p>
<p>Bellamy talks about his troublesome days at school and all the reasons he had gotten detention. Clarke babbles on about her paintings and art school. They discuss politics, relationships, dreams, and aspirations – anything but family.</p>
<p>The night is cold, windy, and the promised clear sky is littered with clouds. The streets are empty, and the sound of rustling trees soothes her as she walks alongside him.</p>
<p>Clarke sneaks a glance at Bellamy as he goes on to another story, noticing the way the moonlight reflects off his dark irises, a spark lit in their middle. She felt giddy as she stared at him, smiling for no apparent reason.</p>
<p>It’s been so long since she had felt this free, this young.</p>
<p>She relished in the feel of the wind in her hair, tickling her neck. She adored this man’s presence even more.</p>
<p>Bellamy, catching on to her stare, turns his head to the side to meet her eyes. Clarke is once again astonished at how kind the warm brown of his eyes seems, how much it feels like home.</p>
<p>Suddenly, he is grabbing her by the hand and pulling her to the middle of the street. Then, letting her go, he lays flat on the asphalt and looks up at her.</p>
<p>“Bellamy, what are you doing?” She laughs incredulously, bending forwards a little to see his face clearer.</p>
<p>“I’m flying.”</p>
<p>Clarke laughs once more, bringing a hand out to gesture for him to get up. The furthest thing away from flying is getting as close to the ground as possible, she thinks.</p>
<p>Instead of latching on to her hand to pull himself up, Bellamy grabs it and pulls her to the ground with him. Clarke lands on his chest with a thump, knocking the air out of both of them.</p>
<p>“Bell—” she starts, trying to hold in the giggles threatening to escape her mouth.</p>
<p>“Watch,” is all he mumbles as he drifts his eyes up to the sky once more.</p>
<p>Letting out an exasperated sigh, she rolls off him to join his on the ground. Her back hits the asphalt, and she brings her eyes up to the clouds.</p>
<p>Amidst the pale clouds above them, she sees a gap. A window to the universe, the moon glistening pearl white, and the stars blinking slowly the longer she stares at them.</p>
<p>Clarke lets out an audible breath as she takes it all in, suddenly understanding what Bellamy meant when he said he is flying.</p>
<p>The reality of laying in the middle of the empty road and staring into a deep unknown like their sky makes her feel light. Gravity forgotten, she feels as though her soul is drawing closer to the moon, leaving her mind blank and awfully light.</p>
<p>Faintly, she feels Bellamy’s gaze on the side of her face. She turns her head slightly, meeting his eyes at the same level. She doesn’t know what she sees in his eyes that makes her want to curl up into him and never let him go, but the feeling is there, nevertheless.</p>
<p>Either she is hallucinating, or his eyes convey the same want as hers.</p>
<p>Just as Bellamy’s fingertips trace the outline of her palm, she sees a droplet of water hits the side of his nose. He blinks strangely, which makes Clarke start to giggle extemporaneously. He starts laughing with her, before quickly jumping up and reaching out a hand to help her up too.</p>
<p>It’s a shock they didn’t get run over since Clarke is pretty sure they had laid there for at least twenty minutes.</p>
<p>As the rain starts pouring harder, they run down the street like madmen. Clarke, at first, follows him reluctantly, trying to coax him to slow down, but gives in as soon as she sees how bright his eyes are shining.</p>
<p>Occasionally, Bellamy lets out loud whoops, and Clarke mimics them with quieter ones of her own. She feels so light, so carefree, that she doesn’t care that they probably look like a couple of children, yelling down the alleyways.</p>
<p>Bellamy’s hand somehow finds its way into her, lacing their fingers together mindlessly. Clarke feels the grin she has drawn on widen as he does, the smile starting to hurt from keeping it on so long.</p>
<p>She has never felt this way.</p>
<p>They ignore the angry glances they receive as they pass a few elderly women walking down the sidewalk and the dog that barks at them as they run past. Clarke thinks she even heard someone grumble something about ‘them millennials’, but she can't bring herself to care.</p>
<p>Bellamy stops suddenly at an intersection, causing Clarke to crash into him. But like always, he catches her in his arms, pulling her slack against him.</p>
<p>Their shirts are soaked, and she is sure he can see the full outline of her frame. The wet clothes are plastered onto both of their bodies and now on each other, as their chests collide with the heavy breathes they are both taking. Both from the running and the heat radiating from Bellamy.</p>
<p>In the rain, his dark curls became one with his face, wetly draped over the bone structure that drives Clarke mad. His expression has now turned serious, his pupils blown and filled with something she can’t decipher.</p>
<p>Clarke wonders if he knows how crazy this drives her, how much it makes her want to feel every inch of his scorching skin pressed against hers.</p>
<p>At this moment, here at the intersection, cars rushing past with window-wipers in full swing, Clarke wills herself to make space between them.</p>
<p>As loud as her heart is beating in her ears, they can’t do this here. However, Bellamy has different plans.</p>
<p>He pulls her back against him, the material of her drenched shirt slapping against his.</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes drift up to his, and they erupt in flames.</p>
<p>“Clarke…”</p>
<p>“Kiss me.”</p>
<p>With that, Bellamy’s lips catch hers in a hard kiss, each of them tasting the cold droplets of the rain. He takes her face between his large hands, and she pulls hers upwards to tangle around his neck. Every thought in Clarke’s head explodes into pounding white, desire twisting low in her stomach as their mouths move swiftly together.</p>
<p>The passersby melt away, the whirring of the cars too, and the world ceases to exist, the moment theirs and only theirs.</p>
<p>The rain pours into their eyes as they try to blink it away hastily. But, instead of detracting from the intensity of the moment, it brings them to a new height. Bellamy pushes his lips in more firmly as their foreheads come to rest against each other. The taste of him is intoxicating, making Clarke’s head swim as though she is drunk. His hand rests below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingle. She runs her fingers down his spine, pulling him impossibly closer until there is no space left between them and she can feel the beating of his heart against her chest.</p>
<p>Eventually, when the noise floods back in, and the blaring of horns pull them back into reality, they pull away slowly. They keep their eyes closed for a while longer, lavishing in each other’s short breaths.</p>
<p>Then, Clarke opens her eyes to focus on the tiny droplets of water gathered on his long eyelashes. He is smiling widely. She can’t help but laugh at how content he looks, so much younger at this moment. The eye bags are no longer visible, only the crinkle of his eyes and corners of his mouth.</p>
<p>She trails her eyes over the freckles on his cheekbones, suddenly feeling the strangest urge to connect the dots and find all the constellations hidden within them.</p>
<p>And then, just because she can, Clarke gives him another peck. Bellamy hums in response, opening his eyes to look at her.</p>
<p>“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, to which Clarke blushes and rewards him with another kiss.</p>
<p>They walk back to their apartment a short while later, sending a few apologetic glances to the onlookers that were watching their whole exchange.</p>
<p>Bellamy holds her hand all the way back, lacing their fingers together and swinging their clasped hands back and forth childishly. Clarke can’t wipe off the grin she seems to have permanently plastered on her face.</p>
<p>The joy and lightness she feels that night is one she hasn’t felt in so long, she had almost forgotten what it felt like. She had almost forgotten what it is like to be happy because of someone and because she wants to be. Because she lets herself be happy.</p>
<p>This time, she was making the choices, and she chose him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for all the support!<br/>Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello again!<br/>Thank you all for the support through-out this story, y'all are great. Your kudos and comments are really the only things persuading me to continue writing sometimes lol.<br/>This chapter is a very important one, and it's over 6.6K words... oops.</p>
<p>Anddd, a huge thank you to my beta-reader for sticking with me this whole time, couldn't have done it without you. :))</p>
<p>Enjoy ~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Inhale. Exhale. A metal cart drives past, it’s wheels creaking past her. Inhale. The stench of sterile bleach fills her nostrils. Exhale. Fight the bile rising up her throat, swallowing tightly. Inhale. Block out the chatter of the people around her. Inhale. Focus on the distant ticking of the clock. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.</p>
<p>Feel the burning of her lungs as oxygen fights its way in. Exhale.</p>
<p>Clarke wrings her trembling hands in her lap, tracing the light bruises littering the stained skin. She bites her lip as she feels another wave of tears nearing at her eyes, blurring her vision until all she can see are blobs of red and white. So much white.</p>
<p>It's sickening.</p>
<p>Her eyes cast to the tiny spec of skin lifting off her thumb. As a force of habit, her shaking hands reach to pick at it, ignoring all the other red marks scattered across her previously smooth skin. She pulls the skin back, entranced by the way the subtle pain courses through her hand. Wincing at the sight of muscle as she begins to pierce the tiny patch of skin, her pace quickens, stripping more and more layers of herself as the blood is now free-flowing once again. The inner working of her thumb is now exposed to the cold air, and for a split second, she finds relief.</p>
<p>The tears are flowing freely once more, both from the pain and anguish. She feels the not-so-subtle stares of those that walk past her, but she couldn’t care less.</p>
<p>His alarmed voice rings louder in her head every time she takes a breath, and every time she exhales she hears his panicked shouts.</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke watched the trees blurring into a bright orange haze out her window, relishing in the roaring winds that twirled in her hair and whistled in her ears. </em>
  <em>She urged to close her eyes at the calm melody coming from the radio, but that clearly wasn’t an option while she was at the wheel. It was nearing spring, and the fresh air filled her lungs with joy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She glanced at Bellamy in the seat beside her briefly, throwing him a grin as he caught her eye. He frowned at her playfully, still a tiny bit upset that she had forced him to let her drive for once since he would do it all the time. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They rented a car for the week, driving all around the countryside during her break from classes, making the most from what they have left of the small vacation they decided to take. Bellamy had taken the wheel for the entire week, and Clarke started to feel a little useless, so she forced him to take a break. He was still pouting about it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She reached over to ruffle his hair as if he were a child, at which he glared at her even more. She let out a breezy laugh, turning her face back to the road. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They had been doing good over the last few months. Their relationship had grown, the feelings heightened, the tiny glances turning into affectionate gazes, turning to heated stares. She was starting to feel like there was a chance with him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A chance for what, she doesn’t know yet, but what she does know is that she hadn’t felt she has had many chances in life in a while.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sneaking another glance at the man beside her, she winked at him. He returned her grin before his face started to morph into alarm. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Confused, she must’ve whispered something along the lines of a question, but before she could understand what he meant, the world exploded.</em>
</p>
<p>She does not remember much after that.</p>
<p>Screams, panic tightening her chest, blood. <em>His</em> blood.</p>
<p>Clarke remembers the tiny rental car flipping so many times that she had become disorientated before she even sustained the concussion that had her drifting in and out of consciousness. She remembers being fleetingly aware of the copper taste in her mouth, and the stabbing pain in her chest.</p>
<p>
  <em>A stench of gas and blood, an ungodly composition, filled her nostrils, further taking away Clarke’s ability to concentrate on pulling her hands down to try and unclasp her seatbelt. It was useless, and so, so painful.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Only when the world stopped turning, she twisted her aching neck to Bellamy, eyes almost unable to focus from the blood pouring into her head from hanging upside down. He hung unconscious, forehead and eyebrows coated in the dark liquid, hangs hanging limp at his sides. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke couldn’t tell if he was breathing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She had to do something, anything, but all she managed were desperate cries and reaches for his arm and seat. The material of his thin shirt was soaked in red, and Clarke couldn’t tell from where he was bleeding. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She recognized her mouth moving, her voice straining as she screamed for something. His life, help, it didn’t matter. She didn’t hear what she was saying, her ears ringing and vision turning blotchy as she fought to remain awake. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Even after she regained consciousness and realized she was being carried somewhere for medical care, she screamed for Bellamy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She remembers yelling his name as they pulled her away from his ambulance, his body now strapped to a carrier, and wheeled away out of her sight. She remembers escaping from the people that were trying to get her to answer questions, desperately chasing after him even after they arrived at the hospital.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her knees shook in agony and pain, and she could barely recognize where she was, but even then, she remembers staggering after him. She could only go so far before she collapsed onto the floor from exhaustion and the injuries she sustained herself, letting out occasional pleas to save him. Keep Bellamy alive.</em>
</p>
<p>Sometime after that, she was brought to get an evaluation of her own, although she doesn’t recall going there willingly. Her memory was patchy, and all she could recall had to do with Bellamy.</p>
<p>Now, she had her hands in her face, trying to stop herself from falling apart once more. Her hand stung, but she supposed it was needed, to latch on to something physical instead of slipping away.</p>
<p>After much fighting, the nurses let her sit outside of the surgical department, determining that they didn’t have much of a reason to keep holding her in the E.D. So, Clarke sits in the waiting room, or somewhere near it, and tries to focus on the good things. On memories, she latches on to when her mind threatens to envelop her whole.</p>
<p>“Miss, why is your hand bleeding?”</p>
<p>Clarke turns her head to the right, eyes landing on the small boy staring up at her in wonder. He points to her hand, where she had picked at her thumb.</p>
<p>He can’t be more than four, large blue eyes innocent and wide, blinking rapidly. Tiny dark curls cover his head, soft loops framing his face.</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes burn as she focuses on a single raven ringlet falling stray onto his forehead, so similar to the way Bellamy’s does. She turns her face away from the child, wiping furiously at her eyes.</p>
<p>“Are you sad?” he questions, waddling a few steps to get into her line of vision once again.</p>
<p>She lets out a choked, humorless laugh. Her sides inflame as she does, vividly bringing her back to reality. Glancing up slightly to take in the way the boy shifts on his feet awkwardly, she tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace.</p>
<p>“It’s okay. I get sad sometimes too.”</p>
<p>The child places a tiny hand onto her knee, and Clarke lets out an audible wheeze as she struggles to contain her sob. His eyes remind her of the other Blake sibling, so much that it hurts.</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s okay, Octavia. He’ll get around to it. Just give him a little time.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No! He doesn’t get to dictate every step of my life anymore. I’m not some helpless child!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke sighed heavily, patting Octavia’s back as the latter ruffles angrily through her purse, scattering all her things over the table carelessly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They had met up at some café for dinner, with Octavia and Lincoln, to hear some kind of news from the couple. Bellamy was skeptical about it, never very discrete about how much he hated Octavia’s boyfriend. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He showed as much during the entire evening, constantly sending glares his way. But, when Octavia whipped out her hand, ring-finger adorned with a bright silver band, he had flipped out. Literally. He stormed out of the tiny hall, not even bothering to look back at Clarke.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Half an hour later, and the three of the remaining troops sit at the table, comforting Octavia in any way possible. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke hadn’t known she signed up for a high school melodrama, yet there they were. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“He is just being a big brother, he just can’t help but feel the need to protect you. You can’t blame him for that.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Octavia scoffed, “I can blame him for whatever the hell I want.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She stood suddenly, throwing some cash onto the table, and grabbing Lincoln by the arm. He looked down at her in surprise, and Clarke almost laughed at how comical they look. Lincoln towers over her yet he looks at her in something that some might call fear. Whether or not Bellamy agrees, Clarke thinks those two are perfect for each other.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“We’re leaving. Tell my brother that I’m not looking for his approval, and not to talk to me until he acts like an adult.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke sighed, throwing on her winter coat and standing to leave along with them. She decided she tried, there isn’t much left to do. And she wasn’t too worried, because no matter how much the two of them fight, they always seem to forget about it sooner than later, calling the other on the phone as if nothing happened. These are the moments that Clarke wished she had a sibling to form such bond with, one that can never be broken. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They left the café, Clarke waving at the couple as they left her at the entrance. She shoved her hands into her pockets, breathing out into the cold air and watching the white fog appear as she did. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She turned her head to the side, catching sight of Bellamy, leaning on a wall in the corner of the street. He glared at the silhouettes of Octavia and Lincoln as they walked further away.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke sighed once more, frustrated but also amused at his childish behavior. She walked up to him, careful not to slip on the trampled snow beneath her feet. He lifted his head at her then, facial features relaxing as he took her in.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Replacing his hands in his coat pockets with her own smaller ones, she pressed herself against him, relishing in the warmth. He breathed into her hair then, setting his chin on top of her head.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Why are you so grumpy?” she joked, voice muffled by her scarf. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I don’t know,” he sighed, pulling back slightly to run his hand across his face. She looked up at him, not pleased with his reaction. He looked tired, weary.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He continued, “I just… I don’t want her to get hurt. And Lincoln is exactly the type of guy that would hurt her.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke scoffed, “Lincoln is exactly the type of guy that wouldn’t hurt a fly. Have you even met him?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy looked away, suddenly more interested in the lamp across the street.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Hey,” she called, raising her hand to force his face back down to hers, “He loves her. A lot. You can see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t do a thing to hurt her, and she is finally happy with him. Don’t you think you could try cutting him some slack?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy looked up slowly, taking her in. She loves when his expression turns soft as he stares into her eyes, it makes her insides melt and her heart swoon. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He sighed, wrapping his arms around her, and lowering his forehead down to meet hers. Then, slowly, and painfully gentle, he kisses her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She melts into his arms like she does every time his lips meet hers and lets herself fall into him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Tiny snowflakes begin to fall gracefully onto the ground, a small wind picking them up and gliding them up into the air, brushing against Clarke’s cheeks. Her and Bellamy stand against a wall outside, ignoring the laughter of children and chatter of people around them, falling into their own bubble as they always tend to do.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When Clarke pulls away reluctantly, she closes her eyes and focuses on Bellamy’s breaths so close to her face, his exhales mixing with hers. He lifted his head upward a little, focusing on the tip of her nose. Clarke crossed her eyes to see what he was staring at. A tiny snowflake settled at the tip of it, tickling her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy reached forward and placed his lips gently at it, giving her a little peck. Clarke laughed, swatting at his chest as she shook her head in disbelief. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy grinned at her maniacally, before launching forward to pepper kisses all over her face. Clarke’s laughs turned higher in pitch, as she desperately tried to duck away from him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He persisted, stepping forward until suddenly, Clarke couldn’t hold her step anymore.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bell—”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They toppled over, feet slipping on the wet ground, and falling to the ground messily. Among delighted screams from herself and Bellamy’s sound of surprise, they were laughing as she landed on his chest.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Rising to his eyes level as he lay on the ground, she stared at his once more. Her gold hair fanned around his face, shielding their faces from the onlookers. Grinning wickedly, she leaned down to press her mouth against his once more, leaving sloppy kisses on her way. With how much they were both grinning, it was impossible to make it work. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But that is just how they are: messy, sloppy, complicated, yet they always make it work.</em>
</p>
<p>Her hands and knees tremble with her struggle to keep her lips pressed together, muffling a sound of pain threatening to escape her throat. Her fingers come to cover the one’s of the boy, his soft skin making it that much harder to swallow down her emotions.</p>
<p>Clarke is pulled back into reality as a young woman, not much older than Clarke, strides up to her. She pulls her son away harshly, gripping his hand as she begins to scold him.</p>
<p>“Michael, what have I told you about strangers. Stop pestering the woman, she has enough trouble of her own without you there making her day that much more difficult.”</p>
<p>Clarke eyes the death grip the tall woman has on the boy’s tiny wrist, his porcelain skin turning impossibly paler. She felt something twist at her gut as she raised her fiery eyes at the mother.</p>
<p>“He wasn’t bothering me.”</p>
<p>The women looked up at her then, deep brown eyes looking sheepish. Clarke felt sick at the apologetic look in her eyes, whilst her hand was almost cutting off the circulation in her son’s.</p>
<p>The small boy looked at his feet, and Clarke could see the tears glistening at their rims. It took all her willpower not to comfort him at that moment. Instead, she peered down at his from below, making sure his wide eyes caught hers. “Hey, Michael, it’s okay.”</p>
<p>Then, lowering her voice to a whisper so only he would hear her, she said, “Thank you for checking up on me.”</p>
<p>She could see his watery eyes brightened at that, as he flashed her a crooked grin. Clarke smiled back.</p>
<p>The mother huffed, and pulled him away, sending Clarke a quiet ‘sorry’ as she did. She watched them as they made their way out of the hall. Michael looked back at her at the door, Clarke sent him a small wave.</p>
<p>Sadness pulled at Clarke’s gut, unprecedented guilt paining her chest. She thinks of how much this boy had looked like Bellamy, how he must be going through the same thing he did when he was little. She tried to swallow the ache in her throat, but it was too tight, too dry.</p>
<p>She was suffocating.</p>
<p>Inhale. Stare down at her torn, dirt-covered sneakers. Exhale. Focus on the minuscule scratches covering her arms. Inhale. A nurse runs by, offering her a glass of water as she notices the paleness of her face. Exhale. Tell her she doesn’t want any through her gritted teeth. Inhale. Watch as she scurries away, sending her an offended glance. Exhale.</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to scare the nurse away. Geez.”</p>
<p>A man has settled in a seat two places away and opposite from hers, crossing his arms and legs as he makes himself comfortable. He stares at her indifferently, an expression that suggests he has a permanent scowl imprinted on his face. His eyes are bloodshot, though Clarke guesses its not from tears.</p>
<p>She drops her head back down, finding her shoelaces more entrancing. “Who are you.”</p>
<p>The man scoffs, letting out a dry chuckle, “I’m offended. Thought Bellamy would have at least mentioned me a couple of times.”</p>
<p>Clarke remains silent, flinching at the sound of Bellamy’s name.</p>
<p>“I’m Murphy.” When Clarke doesn’t react, he adds, “A work friend. The high one.”</p>
<p>Unfortunately, that makes Clarke realize who she is talking to. Bellamy has mentioned him before, in his stories about college and his writing. They had never met, but she has heard of the nights that he and Bellamy would get drunk and high out of their minds and try composing literature. It was quite a story.</p>
<p>Clarke and Bellamy liked to keep to themselves, leaving nights out dedicated to them and occasionally Octavia and Lincoln, on the days that Bellamy could tolerate him. He talks a lot of his friends, and she does of her own, but they keep their distance.</p>
<p>For some reason, they like to keep their relationship to themselves.</p>
<p>“Right, sorry,” she mumbles, raking her hand through her tangled hair, although it probably resembles a bird’s nest at the moment. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Murphy whips out a plastic bottle of water out of his jacket, throwing his head back as he takes a gulp. Judging by the grimace on his face, Clarke assumes it’s not water he’s drinking.</p>
<p>“So. You’re the girlfriend.” He licks his lips of the clear liquid. “Bellamy can’t shut up about you.”</p>
<p>If it were anywhere and anytime else, Clarke would have grinned, blushed, or maybe even let out a laugh. But all she manages is a choked exhale and nod, eyes now trained on the space next to Murphy.</p>
<p>“Pity to meet under such ungodly circumstances,” he smirks, although the joke doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Clarke can see that he is also in much pain, whether he wants to show it or not.</p>
<p>Clarke finally sits up, leaning on the cool wall behind her, letting her eyes droop half-closed as she looks at Murphy skeptically. When he realizes he still hasn’t answered her question, he sighs.</p>
<p>“I must still be listed as an emergency contact on his phone or something. They called, so I came.”</p>
<p>Clarke nodded, finally letting her eyes shut as she exhales. She is exhausted, and as much as she would like to ignore it, the physical pain in her chest and head are still ever-present. Her head pounds, and she can hear her heart beating in her ears.</p>
<p>For some reason, she longs to call Octavia, but knowing that she is out of the country for a ‘work trip’ with Lincoln, she isn’t going to pick up. Which is probably why she hasn’t gotten the memo about the accident.</p>
<p>She must doze off for a minute, because the next thing she knows, Murphy is holding out a blueberry muffin in his hand, waving it in front of her face to wake her up.</p>
<p>“You should eat.”</p>
<p>She scrunches up her nose as the scent of the baked good hits her nose. “I’m not hungry.”</p>
<p>Murphy doesn’t sway, still reaching out his hand from his seat, the muffin huddled in his hand. “If you want to be awake for when Bellamy wakes up, you should probably not starve yourself to death.”</p>
<p>Huffing in frustration, Clarke leans forward to snatch the muffin away from his hand. Murphy sits back into his chair, looking smug. Clarke wants to punch the smirk off his face.</p>
<p>She looks down at the muffin. It’s so stupid, the way something so irrelevant can bring up so much pain.</p>
<p>Her mind swims, drifts, as it often tends to. It is so familiar, the bittersweet smell reminding her of home, of the only person she considers home. Her stomach churns as she suddenly feels sick.</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s midday and the sun is shining through the tiny window of Clarke’s kitchen, bouncing off the walls and decorating them with shadows. She stands at the counter, mixing the wet ingredients of a cake as she watches Bellamy try and work her oven.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Clarke, I don’t know what kind of sorcery this is, but it's just not turning on.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She laughs lightly, walking over to press a single button, at which the lights of the oven light up.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy looks down at her in wonder, “You’re amazing.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh, shut up,” she grins, hopping back to the counter and resuming her mixing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They both had the day off and decided to spontaneously bake a cake. For what reason, she doesn’t know, but she does know that it has been as lighthearted and relaxing as she would’ve liked. Among the easy bickering and endless teasing, they had been talking about their plans together. Winter was at the door and she has a break coming up.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She felt his gaze, goosebumps rising at her skin. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What are you looking at?” she said, smiling playfully as a blush covered her cheeks.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Just thinking about how you were worth the wait.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh, really? What exactly was worth the wait?” she questioned, biting her lip as warmth pooled at her chest. He always had a way with words, knowing exactly what to say to turn her into a puddle at his feet.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>His face grew somber, eyes turning serious and filled with emotion she can’t place. “What wasn’t?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They settled into silence then, simply enjoying each other’s presence. She tries not to think much of the flutters she feels in her heart, and the strange bittersweet smile pulling at her mouth. She’s learned that this man makes her feel things she does not yet understand, and she knows not to try and figure them out to spare her some heartache.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She is pulled out of her thoughts as she feels Bellamy snuggle up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist as he laid his head on her shoulder, peering over at what she is doing. She looked back, catching the glint in his eyes. He smiled back at her, breathing her in.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Turning back to her work, she relaxed against him, mellowing in his embrace. She loved moments like these, where nothing else mattered.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Suddenly, she felt Bellamy trails his lips over the curve of her neck, nipping at the skin ever so lightly. Clarke leaned into the feeling, arching her neck to the side to give him better access. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bell,” she warned, although it went unsaid, as he continued his exploration down her throat. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bellamy,” she warned again, letting her voice grow a little more serious. He hummed at that, biting lightly, eliciting a breathy gasp from Clarke. They were on dangerous territory because as Bellamy started on a hickey at Clarke’s throat, there wasn’t much holding her back. And she really wanted to finish this cake.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But when Bellamy’s mouth came off her neck with a wet pop, and she glanced behind her to see the gleam in his blown-out pupils, she decided to ditch the cake. Flipping around so quickly that even Bellamy is caught off-guard, she pounces onto him, lacing her hands behind his neck and bringing her face up to meet his. Her eyes drifted up to his, and at the lust-filled glance he throws down to her lips, she explodes.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her lips catch him in a hard kiss, pushing his backward with the force of it. She feels him back up to the wall opposite them as her lips moved against his frantically, as though devouring him entirely.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She pressed him against it, taking advantage of his surprise at her sudden boldness, and lavishing in his compliance. She takes his face between her hands, crushing their foreheads together as she tugged at his bottom lip. At that, he released a low growl at the back of his throat, a small, pleading noise that threatened to set every inch of her skin on fire.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In her moment of weakness, he had flipped them around so that he towered over her once more, while she was pressed against the wall. Inches from each other’s face, so close to the point that she could feel his breaths on her mouth, they stared each other down like wolves. It was a game for dominance, and although Clarke knew it wasn’t one she would win, she played along regardless. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Then, with a last longing glance, their mouths are back on each other’s, desperate breaths escaping both. Bellamy hooks his hands below her knees, and suddenly she is lifted off the ground, entirely propped up against the cream wall. Her body curves into his as heat pools low in her stomach.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He clutches at her hips, the tight grip almost bruising her skin as she pulls at the front of his shirt helplessly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bellamy, please,” she gasps, although she isn’t sure what she is asking for. He tasted of summer rain, pouring over her as if it had the power to take away and give back life. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke gripped his hair, tugging gently, at which he let out an embarrassing groan. She giggled against his lips, doing it again to hear it once more.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Then, with a grunt, Bellamy lifts Clarke into his arms and staggers across out of the kitchen, nearly toppling over the chairs discarded around them.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What about the cake?” Clarke gasped out, the sentence muffled against Bellamy’s lips.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Forget the damn cake,” he groaned, clutching at her sides as they headed towards her bedroom. She muffled her laughs against his neck as he hurried across the hall, stumbling past the corners. Her heart thrummed against her chest as she wallowed in his embrace, breathing in his scent. This was home.</em>
</p>
<p>“Jesus, okay, you don’t have to eat the goddamn muffin if you don’t want to.” Murphy’s wide eyes stare up at her as he leans forward. “Clarke?”</p>
<p>Clarke feels the hot tears slide down her cheeks, a few of them dripping onto the pastry. Her lower lip trembles trapped between her teeth and she bites on it so hard, it draws blood. She can’t do this.</p>
<p>Clarke stands abruptly, sending Murphy to hit the back of his chair. She cannot pretend it is okay. She cannot stand sitting here, while Bellamy is fighting for his life in surgery. She did this, and it makes her sick to think that she is the one outside, the one that gets to live.</p>
<p>Stumbling past Murphy and chucking the muffin into his outreached hands, she makes her way across the corridor. Murphy calls past her, but Clarke doesn’t hear him.</p>
<p>She strides blindly towards the green sign of the restroom, hanging her head down as she pushes past people in her way. She cannot breathe.</p>
<p>Slamming the door open, pleased at the empty room, she staggers over to the sink.</p>
<p>Placing both hands on the vanity, and hanging her head low beneath her shoulders, she breathes rapidly. Breathless dry sobs escape her mouth, and she can feel the wetness of her it dribble by her chin as she gasps in an attempt to let oxygen into her lungs.</p>
<p>Clarke looks up into the mirror then, eyes hooded. The girl that stares back at her looks sick. Nose running, lips torn up and bloody from biting them so hard, hair tangled and dark with dirt. Her shoulders shake with her dry heaves. Nausea swirls unrestrained in her empty stomach.</p>
<p>It’s her fault, It’s her fault, It’s her fault, It’s her fault.</p>
<p>She screams then. It is the kind of scream that puts every other thought on hold and roots everyone close in the very same agony. Her knuckles turn white from how hard she is gripping the marble sink. She knows that her screams are loud enough to be heard outside, but she doesn’t care.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy.</em>
</p>
<p>Her voice breaks as she wails. She doesn’t know what she is shouting at: the world, Bellamy, herself. She screams to numb the pain blooming in her chest, she screams at herself for letting go of the one thing that has kept her sane, she screams for mercy.</p>
<p>Her upper body and shoulders wrack with every sob that forces its way out, chest rising and falling unevenly as she gasps for breath, and she squeezes his eyes shut, balling her hands into fists each time she throws her head back to let out a blood-curdling scream.</p>
<p>Her saliva mixes with the blood at her lips, and the liquid pours onto the white marble, staining it bright red.</p>
<p>Clarke punches the tabletop, relishing in the pain that strikes up her arm. She hits it again, again, again, until her knuckles too are coated in red.</p>
<p>She killed him. Just like she did her father.</p>
<p>That’s what she does. Everyone that she loves leaves, in death or heartache, and it is all her fault.</p>
<p>She slumps against the wall to her right, letting go of the sink as she slides down to the ground. She crouches on her knees, placing her trembling hands onto the cool tiles. The pain is omnipresent now, flowing through her head, her heart, her limbs.</p>
<p>She wishes she could just be reduced to physical pain so that her mind would shut off, and so would her feelings.</p>
<p>So, she throws her head back against the wall in desperation, hearing the loud thump and feeling the stabbing pain at her skull as she does it again.</p>
<p>It does nothing but reminds Clarke of how is easy it would be to numb her mind.</p>
<p>To take a gun and place the cool metal down her throat, pulling the trigger, shooting all the pain away.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Clarke loses track of how much time has past whilst she was in the restroom. She strides out of there a while later as if nothing happened.</p>
<p>And maybe she could pretend that nothing had if only she didn’t have her split knuckles and lip as proof.</p>
<p>Murphy is standing outside it, looking extremely uncomfortable as he leans against a wall, once again chugging down the clear liquid in his bottle.</p>
<p>He says nothing as she approaches him, although she doesn’t miss the way his eyes trace her bloody hand before she shoves it in her pocket. He nods at her, straightening up and meeting her eyes. She can see something in her eyes and decides that she is afraid of what he is going to say next.</p>
<p>“They are letting us see him.”</p>
<p>The simple sentence raises blood to Clarke’s face as she lets out a choked breath, feeling her throat clench around nothing. It seems her heart had just resumed beating.</p>
<p>“He’s out of surgery,” Murphy adds, as though Clarke needed more confirmation.</p>
<p>She nods frantically, wringing her hands at her front as she stares up at him in anticipation. “I don’t know where his room is,” she utters when he doesn’t move.</p>
<p>As though shaken from something, he sobers up and starts to make his way across the hall, Clarke right behind him.</p>
<p>Eventually, she enters a room, the white paint of the walls contrasting the somber atmosphere.</p>
<p>There he is. Lying in a hospital bed, wires and tubes coming out of his gown, the whirring of machines surrounding him. The hospital room is as devoid of beauty as she is of hope.</p>
<p>“Bellamy…” Clarke whispers hoarsely as she slowly makes her way over to him. She tries to stop the shaking of her knees as she staggers over.</p>
<p>He looks so young, so peaceful. His eyes are closed, chest rising with each deep breath he takes. His face is covered in small gashes, butterfly stitches decorating his freckled cheeks and forehead. His lips are so blue, torn up just like hers. It pains Clarke to see him like this, so helpless and hurt.</p>
<p>Murphy stands at the doorway, observing the tiny steps Clarke makes to settle at the foot of his bed, taking Bellamy’s hand in hers.</p>
<p>“Oh, Bellamy,” she gasps, running her fingers along his arm, watching as his fingers flex reflexively. The tiny movement is enough to make Clarke sniffle as she feels her eyes get wet once more.</p>
<p>She hates being so weak, so useless as she weeps in front of him. She can feel Murphy lingering at the entrance to the room, his gaze is imminent on her back. She tries to ignore it.</p>
<p>She takes in the way his eyelashes sit at his cheek, fluttering every so often. His side is bandaged heavily, and Clarke can see a pinkish tint at its center. She looks away as guilt starts eating away at her insides.</p>
<p>If only she had time to swerve away from the truck coming at them. If only it had hit the driver’s side of the car and not the passenger seat. That way Bellamy would be safe and awake, not wrapped in wires and tubes in a hospital room.</p>
<p>Clarke thrums her hand across his wrist, feeling his pulse beat steadily at her fingertips. She reaches out to brush her hand across his cheek, the rough texture pushing against her palm.</p>
<p>Murphy must have slipped away because the door is now closed.</p>
<p>Only then does Clarke let herself break once more. Her chest constricts as she tries to even out her breathing, grasping Bellamy’s hand desperately.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I’m so sorry, Bellamy.” She is crying openly now, feeling the tears slide down the front of her collar. The guilt eats away at her insides, and Clarke can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry. If I only I had looked forward a few seconds earlier than I had. You just had to sit in the passengers' seat this once. Why did you take the hit instead of me? Why did it have to be you? Why you?”</p>
<p>Her words come out slurred, as though her lips have been glued shut. Her vision and hearing are hazy, so when she hears murmur something, she doesn’t notice.</p>
<p>“Bell, please – I’m begging you, stay with me. I need you,” she wails, muffling her voice in the thin blanket covering his body. She mutters ‘I’m sorry’ into the warm cloth, losing count of how many times she repeats it like a mantra.</p>
<p>“It’s not your fault.”</p>
<p>Clarke snaps her head up at his voice, hoarse and dry, but so vividly his. His eyes are almost closed, a tiny gap that lets his brown irises peek out. He goes for a tiny grin, but it comes out more like a grimace.</p>
<p>Clarke laughs incredulously, her hands coming out to cup his face, the light stubble scratching at her palms. He meets her eyes lazily, and Clarke decides that she is going to die.</p>
<p>She smiles through her tears, sniffling uncontrollably.</p>
<p>“No, don’t cry,” he mumbles, “I hate it when you cry.”</p>
<p>Clarke raises his hand to her cheek as she barks out a laugh. He wipes away a tear that slides down her nose. The simple touch sends a wave of butterflies coursing through her veins, their fluttering wings easing the dread that had settled inside her.</p>
<p>“You’re okay. You’re okay,” she whispers, more to herself than him, as she pecks the inside of his palm. She rests her face in it, letting him brush his fingers lazily along with it.</p>
<p>“It’s not your fault,” Bellamy wheezes out, as his voice becomes choked. “I need you to know that.”</p>
<p>Clarke looks into his eyes as they become serious, the sleep gone, replaced with something she cannot decipher. His pupils are blown, and red rings surround them.</p>
<p>She remains quiet, tracing small patterns on his blanket-covered thigh. She knows that if she speaks, she won’t be able to stop herself from telling him he’s wrong.</p>
<p>They sit in silence for a few moments, soaking in each other’s presence. Clarke can’t tear her eyes away from his face, entranced by the tiny freckles coating them.</p>
<p>It is then that she realizes that what she feels for him is beyond affection. Sitting merely a few hours ago, unknowing if she would ever get to hear his voice again, she was on the brink of insanity. And she knew that if she were to found out he didn’t make it, there would be no saving her. She cannot imagine life without him, and that makes her so terrified.</p>
<p>She doesn’t say anything, because she figures they will have time to talk about that when he isn’t lying in a hospital bed. For now, she lets herself relish in his warmth, and feel his pulse against her cheek.</p>
<p>Then, on an impulse, when his eyes droop closed, she starts humming. A gentle tune, a lullaby that she used to hear every day as a child.</p>
<p>When his hand goes limp, she supposes he falls asleep. But then, when the frantic beeping of the heart monitor fills the room, Clarke feels the air shift. She knows exactly what is going on.</p>
<p>Nurses flood the room, urgent calls surrounding her. She stands from his bed, still grasping his hand.</p>
<p>“No, no, no, no –” She rambles, shaking her head as she stares at Bellamy’s face. She feels someone tap her shoulder, but she shrugs it away, refusing to leave her spot beside him. “No!”</p>
<p>“Miss, you need to leave the room,” a nurse calls, placing her hand on Clarke’s forearm. Clarke tries to shove it away, stepping closer to the bed.</p>
<p>“He was fine just a minute ago,” Clarke yelps desperately. Her eyes search his pale face to no avail.</p>
<p>“Miss—”</p>
<p>“I am not leaving him.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Miss, but—”</p>
<p>“No!”</p>
<p>Then, Clarke is being pulled away from him, his hand leaving hers as they lead her out of the room. She screams in desperation, waling for them to let her go. She thrashes in their hold, screaming Bellamy’s name all the way out into the hall.</p>
<p>Then, the door is being shut in her face as she finally breaks free. She pounds on the glass, still letting out shrill cries. She can’t lose him. She can’t.</p>
<p>Her cries turn to nonsense and maniac mumbling when the beeping of his monitor speeds up, and she hears the familiar static of a defibrillator. She is gasping for air that simply isn’t there.</p>
<p>Murphy watches as Clarke collapses to the floor in front of the doorway, sobbing desperately as she whispers nonsense. She can’t feel her hands of feet, and her head has gone blank. She can only whisper ‘stay with me’ hopelessly into the door, drowning in the sounds of the machine.</p>
<p>She feels Murphy’s hand on her shoulder as she trembles on the floor. Her nails dig into her palms as she tries to numb the pain. The noises drone out and mix in a haze as she feels her chest ripping apart.</p>
<p>The world turns into a blur, and so do all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything just gone.</p>
<p>And when his heart stops, so does hers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry... :)</p>
<p>Next chapter will be up shortly ~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh boy, this chapter was a hassle...<br/>Whilst writing it, I'd discovered that I like writing fluff and hurt/comfort much more than smut and all that, so bear that in mind...<br/>I don't usually write it if it isn't needed for plot development, but I felt that it would be suitable to show the characters' (unhealthy) coping mechanisms and otherwise.<br/>Anyway, enjoy my attempt ~</p>
<p>-<br/>(check End Notes for a content warning.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moment the soft beats of the heart monitor were heard from outside the door, Clarke’s breathing came back to her. She gasped in relief, the anguish she had felt was still constricting her throat as she tried to inhale oxygen to get her mind working again.</p>
<p>Her vision was still hazy with unshed tears, but the ringing in her ears had started to subside. She felt Murphy at her side, in just as much relief as her, and she thinks she may even have seen a hint of a smile playing at his lips.</p>
<p><em>He’s alive</em>.</p>
<p>An endless mantra that willed her to her feet when the thought had cemented itself into her mind. The only thing that forced her to take a step into the room, despite the burning of her chest and stinging of her hand.</p>
<p>Clarke felt as though she had never breathed air before, the briskness of the oxygen filling her lungs as she willed herself to even out her shallow gasps. The tightness in her chest morphing into relief and desperation as her hands almost pounded at the door when she saw the movement in his room resume.</p>
<p>She had run into the room as soon as they had unlocked it and waved her in, pushing through the nurses to get to Bellamy’s side.</p>
<p>He wasn’t awake, but the rise and fall of his chest that Clarke had felt when she placed her hand over his heart proved that he was alive. And that was enough for her.</p>
<p>She can’t begin to think about what she would have done if he were gone, nor can she think of what would be left of her sanity. Her mind left in pieces, and soul torn to shreds, remnants of who she was with him. Her head just trying to visualize that.</p>
<p>Instead, she had laid her head on his abdomen, her head lifting with the movement of his diaphragm. She longed for this reminder that he is alive, yet it was also a reminder of his mortality. He was so close to death, and maybe he had even met it.</p>
<p>The guilt that Clarke had buried for time being is insistent at her stomach, the dread pooling below.</p>
<p>She wishes she could forget and focus on the fact that he is alive, yet its presence is indelible. She knows that she will have to face it, yet she can’t gather the will to do that right now.</p>
<p>She tries to focus on Bellamy’s shallow breaths, as though they’re a lullaby. She closes her eyes at the thought.</p>
<p>Murphy’s presence is ubiquitous, and the heavy gaze he has on her is almost uncomfortable. He stands across the room, leaning against a wall, clearly trying to appear casual and invisible. But, Clarke knows better, since he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the way she grasps his hand.</p>
<p>Gently, she tilts her head to the side to glance at him, still resting it on Bellamy’s stomach. Murphy at least has the dignity to look away when she catches him with a questioning stare. He rocks on his feet, now looking anywhere but her.</p>
<p>When Clarke thinks he isn’t going to say anything, she shuts her eyes once more. The warmth of Bellamy’s frame is bittersweet and does much to remind Clarke that there was a moment where she could’ve never felt it again.</p>
<p>“You care about him.”</p>
<p>Murphy’s voice is clear, despite his efforts to appear casual. He is trying to figure something out, judging by the knot in his brows.</p>
<p>“Of course, I care about him.” Clarke finds it ridiculous he would even question that.</p>
<p>Murphy hums in agreement, but the knot still doesn’t fade.</p>
<p>Clarke looks up at Bellamy. His skin has regained its color, and the freckles scattered across his face now settle on the rosiness of his cheeks, no longer a contrast. She is once again mesmerized by the curve of his dark lashes, fluttering with every breath. She can’t believe that this was so close to never again.</p>
<p>Murphy’s voice breaks the quiet again. “No, but it’s more than that.”</p>
<p>Clarke is confused, but she doesn’t turn her head to ask Murphy what he means. Instead, she shrugs, letting out a tiny content breath as she continues staring at Bellamy.</p>
<p>“It is in the way you look at him. The way you broke when you thought he was gone. Like he was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that kept you alive.” Murphy paused to make sure Clarke meets his eyes. “You love him.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t react for a little while, trying to wrap her mind around those words. Murphy shrinks back into himself as he utters it, and signals that the conversation is over.</p>
<p><em>Love.</em> She doesn’t remember the last time she felt love. She doesn’t think she knows what love even feels like. Is it the way her heart flutters at every thought of him? Is it the all-consuming warmth she feels in his presence – the security and safety? Is it the way her heart throbs at the thought of losing him? Is it the fact that she knows she wouldn’t be able to breathe if it wasn’t alongside him?</p>
<p>It can’t be. Because that means that love is the only thing that could break her entirely.</p>
<p>She cannot love if it means that it is what holds the key to her sanity. Because he would be the only one in possession of such key, and if he were to try, he would unlock whatever hell is underneath.</p>
<p>She cannot love him, for that means he has control of whatever is left of her heart and being.</p>
<p>She cannot love, for love is weakness.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>They made him stay in the hospital for a week after that. As much as Clarke hated that predicament and would much rather take care of him while he heals at home, she knows better than to endanger him any further.</p>
<p>Bellamy woke up the day after, wide eyes staring down at Clarke when she had passed out at his side. When she felt his lazy fingers weave through her curls, she wanted to weep and laugh, throw her arms around him, and never let go. However, his still heavily bandaged side clearly suggested not to.</p>
<p>He had thrown her a crooked grin, and something that must’ve been intended to be a wink, at which Clarke struggled to contain her sob. And when a stray tear betrayed her and slid down her cheek, he had wiped it away with his calloused fingers, the scratch of his skin against hers a bitter reminder of his near-death.</p>
<p>“You were nearly gone,” she had whispered hoarsely, hanging on to his hand as he kept it in her lap.</p>
<p>“I’d never leave you,” he had simply replied, laying a gentle peck onto the back of her palm.</p>
<p>She didn’t try to restrain her tears after that, letting them flow silently down her face as she leaned forward and peppered kisses onto his cheeks, feeling him smile and drift his eyes closed in response.</p>
<p>As the slow days piled on, visitors came and went, wishes passed on.</p>
<p>Murphy stayed the first two days, taking naps in the horrid chairs of the waiting room or cafeteria, going back home to take a shower or a change of clothes. Clarke didn’t know why he stayed as long as he did because there weren’t many words passed on between him and Bellamy when he was here.</p>
<p>“I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Murphy had said, patting the side of Bellamy’s bed as he did. He didn’t stay in the room after a couple of other words were thrown around between the two men, simply staggering back to the cool metal of the hall’s chairs. Clarke really doesn’t know why he did it, but she found that she didn’t completely mind. The company whilst Bellamy was asleep was welcome, so she didn’t question it. He was like a guard dog, present but not entirely involved.</p>
<p>Octavia and Lincoln popped in as well, jetlagged and exhausted, but dynamic, nevertheless. “You absolute moron,” she had muttered, walking in the first time into his room. He had waved weakly in response, trying to seem nonchalant. She flicked him on the side of his head as she neared his bed.</p>
<p>“What the hell was that for? Is that how you greet your injured brother.”</p>
<p>“That was for almost dying, asshole. Your heart stopping? Don’t you dare try pulling a stunt like that again.”</p>
<p>Although they were both fuming by the time they were done bickering, Clarke could see the worry and care in Octavia’s eyes, the light trembling of her hands as she hugged Clarke goodbye before leaving later that night. She can’t begin to imagine what it was like for Octavia, nearly losing her only brother, and while she wasn’t present too. The guilt must be tearing her up almost as much as it was Clarke.</p>
<p>Over the next few days, Octavia had scolded him, teared up, half-yelled, teared up again, and left the two of them be. Lincoln stood by her side awkwardly, shooting small condolences when the air got heavy. Bellamy didn’t seem to mind his presence too much, which was shocking, but supposed it was all the pain medication. Or hopefully, the experience knocked some sense not him. At least something good came out of it.</p>
<p>By the time the news passed on to friends and coworkers, Clarke was itching to go back to their apartment. The constant chatter and half-hearted conversations were driving her insane. Bellamy must've hated it even more, glued to the spot on his bed as he had to pretend all was good while chatting with the visitors. His mouth must hurt from smiling all day. She admired him for his composure though, there was no way she would be able to keep it up.</p>
<p>But when the sun set and the time neared midnight, the nights were theirs once more. Whispers of promises and occasional apologies were passed through the night, followed by angered whispers of denial of the said apologies, and then followed by packed silence as both of them mulled over what the other had said. It wasn’t enough to make Clarke leave his side, however, their hands intertwined the entire time during and after that.</p>
<p>When Bellamy was to fall asleep, Clarke would stay awake, watching him in the moonlight shining through the tiny window of the room. She would rock on her chair, back sore from her poor posture as she mouthed words into his palms, wishing her mistakes were to evaporate into the night just like their misplaced anger did.</p>
<p>The sleepless dark did nothing to calm her mind as her thoughts taunted her of what she did, of what she could’ve done. The way she dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of her palm did not subside the internal war of peace and bloodshed. And the red crescents engraved in her skin only remained a reminder of the pain she caused, both to him and herself.</p>
<p>Clarke would have masked her torture in the daylight, letting her eyes turn bright and hopeful as Bellamy opened his own to meet hers. He has enough to worry about, and Clarke’s conscience shouldn’t be one of them.</p>
<p>She got good at it, the hide and seek. The nights were reserved for pain and the days for relief of his presence.</p>
<p>She didn’t realize Bellamy had grown to know her better than she did herself.</p>
<p>So, a week after he was released from the hospital, deemed fit enough to move around, he catches her in her routinely game of blame and guilt. They are laying in bed at the ungodly hour of two in the morning, enveloped in comfortable silence. They are cuddled up in the bed of his apartment, the darkness settling around them as they try to fall asleep.</p>
<p>Clarke traces gentle circles around the pink outline of his healed wound, the bandage no longer protecting his side. Bellamy had said it didn’t hurt anymore, but Clarke still maintains her light touch to prevent any discomfort.</p>
<p>She glances up at him occasionally, checking to see his eyes shut, even breaths raising his chest up along with her. She lays her head of the corner of his shoulder, opposite to the wounded side, in an attempt to avoid any accidents. Bellamy had said it was ridiculous since he ‘literally didn’t feel much anymore’, but Clarke thought it was better safe than sorry.</p>
<p>She contemplates the month’s events as she tends to when Bellamy is almost asleep.</p>
<p>She hasn’t had a full night of sleep in weeks, awake until dawn, only resting her eyes a few hours before Bellamy’s alarm wakes them both up. She knows that Bellamy is aware of it, judging by the pained looks he sends her when he catches her eyes alert and wide in the early morning, no traces of sleep laced in them. He must see the dark circles under her eyes, but he knows better than to talk to her about it.</p>
<p>That is, until tonight.</p>
<p>“Sleep,” he slurs, when her hand continues its ministrations on his side onto the next hour. She jerks slightly at the suddenness of his voice right next to her ear. She supposed he was asleep since his breaths had evened out and his body had gone so still.</p>
<p>Clarke liked to think she was good at tracking when he was asleep, having had practice over the course of the fortnight.</p>
<p>She hums into his shoulder in response, not attempting to stop her touches. “Go back to sleep."</p>
<p>Clarke almost believes that he does when he falls into silence once more. Checking to see his shut eyelids, she whispers mindlessly into the skin of his collarbone.</p>
<p>She talks of the nightmares that await her if she closes her eyes, of the demons that threaten to devour what is left of her dignity. She speaks of the ache in her chest as she tries to swallow the painful guilt at her throat every time she looks into his eyes or at his side. She whispers of how sorry she is for her inattentiveness, for not looking twice at the road to see the truck. She mutters of how undeserving she is of him, how stupid he is for choosing her.</p>
<p>“Stop it.”</p>
<p>His voice is razor-sharp in the darkness, the low timbre cutting through her thoughts and stilling her hand.</p>
<p>Then, he is sitting up abruptly, sending her toppling off him before he pulls her up with him. He grips her forearms harshly, though the feeling isn’t enough to call pain. Even in the darkness, she can see the outline of his pained eyes and downturned lips, an angry frown invading upon his delicate features.</p>
<p>They stare at each other dead in the eye -- anger and sadness overtaking Bellamy’s, and guilt and shame pooling in Clarke’s. She knows what he is going to say, so she turns away as soon as his mouth opens.</p>
<p>“If I hadn’t,” she starts before he can utter a word, “If I hadn’t looked away, maybe – maybe, I would have seen it coming before it hit us. And, and if I hadn’t forced you to let me drive, maybe I would’ve been hit instead, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt—”</p>
<p>“Listen to me.” His voice is so cold and harsh, she feels goosebumps rise at her skin. “You—did not, <em>did not</em>, do anything wrong. It isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault. You understand?”</p>
<p>“But—”</p>
<p>“No, Clarke!”</p>
<p>His gaze is scorching, and his grip on her arm is relentless. She can almost picture the steam coming off him as he glares at her. But it isn’t a glare filled with hatred, rather an affection and care, and something else she can’t see at the surface.</p>
<p>He has pulled her upright, so close to him that she practically sits on his lap. Then, with a sudden softness, he tugs her towards him until her knees slide around his thighs and she is straddling him. She glances down to make sure she isn’t disrupting his wound.</p>
<p>The grip on her arms has loosened, and his hands now rest at her hips, rubbing gentle circles into her skin. He breaths in deeply to calm himself, and Clarke looks down at his chest in shame. At this point, she doesn’t even know what she is ashamed about.</p>
<p>When neither of them says anything, Clarke looks up at him, finally breaking as they make eye contact. The worry and sadness in his eyes are too overwhelming. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers, her voice breaking halfway. She can see the way his hands halt at her waist when he hears her take in a shaky breath, trying to control her tears.</p>
<p>She isn’t going to be weak in front of him, especially when she is the one at fault.</p>
<p>Bellamy breaks his composure then, tense muscles relaxing, and he loops his hands around her and sends her falling into him. “Come here.”</p>
<p>She leans in to touch her forehead against his, sniffling lightly at the gentleness of the touch. Then, Bellamy pushes forward to close the tiny gap between their mouths, locking their lips in a kiss.</p>
<p>Soft, gentle at first. The movement is maddening in how slow their lips chase each other. Then, at Clarke’s hum into his mouth, Bellamy slips his tongue between her lips, still gentle but demanding. Clarke’s entire body dissolves into his, pushing their frames flush against one another. Her fingers grope his hair tightly, and she suddenly feels the heaviness of nearly losing him. Her body curves into his to pull them even closer, until she couldn’t decide where hers ended and his begun.</p>
<p>“I almost lost you,” she whispers against his lips. The wetness of her cheeks drips down to their mouths, and she can taste her salty tears.</p>
<p>“I’m right here.” Bellamy slides his hands under the hem of her shirt, running his calloused fingers across her soft skin. He prods at the fabric as he tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth, making Clarke let out a low gasp. “I’m not going anywhere.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t know whether she sobs in relief or frustration when Bellamy’s lips leave hers to drift down her neck, tracing their way down her pale skin. He was leaving marks in all the places his mouth has been – under her soft jawline, her throat, the hollow of her collarbones, and the flesh just above the low cut of her sleep shirt.</p>
<p>As his lips trail further down, and his head bows as he leans lower, Clarke is suddenly reminded of his wound. The excessive movement this night is likely to backtrack any healing progress or reopen it again entirely.</p>
<p>“You’re still hurt,” she muffles against the top of his head, brushing her fingers through them wildly.</p>
<p>“Then help me focus on something other than pain.”</p>
<p>He manages to lift her top up and discard of it somewhere to the floor, his mouth flying to cover the newly exposed expanse of her chest. Clarke’s fingers tangle in his curls as she tries to muffle her embarrassing groan.</p>
<p>His tongue leaves wet trails across her silky skin, stopping just short of the peaks of her breasts, and trailing back up to her throat. She groans from the loss of contact and tries to push his head back down. Bellamy lets out a throaty laugh against her skin that vibrates throughout her body.</p>
<p>He glances up at her from the corner of his eyes, the playful glint instantly fading as Clarke’s lust-filled pupils stare back down at him. She is sure he can see the raw need in her face as she murmurs, “Make me forget.”</p>
<p>The hunger is his eyes ablaze, Bellamy loses whatever self-control he had left, trapping Clarke with his thighs on top of him. His hand is skimming down the plane of her stomach, brushing against her so softly that she completely loses her train of thought. His eyes stare into hers as his rough fingers brush over the damp cotton of her underwear, eliciting an impatient whimper from Clarke.</p>
<p>Then, as she is distracted by the way he sucks a hickey onto her glistening collarbone, they’re gone, thrown onto the floor along with her shirt. She straddles him, her naked body pressed against his, and the only thing separating them is the thin cloth of his briefs. She can feel his hardness press against her thigh, subconsciously rolling her hips. Bellamy hisses at the movement.</p>
<p>She feels his fingers reach the heat of her core, entering agonizingly slow. His fingers spread her open, gathering the slick of her arousal in slow sweeps. She whimpers as his thumb presses down on the bundle of nerves, her legs clamping around his hand as she clings to his abdomen. Shaking with the need for more, she mutters incoherent demands into his clavicle. To her relief, he moves his fingers at a faster pace as she lets out tiny gasps at the sensations.</p>
<p>Clarke can feel the pressure building low in her stomach, the sweet longing of release almost at her fingertips as Bellamy utters out small words of praise and encouragement.</p>
<p>Then, just as she could feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge, the short movements of his fingers slow, eliciting a desperate mewl from Clarke.</p>
<p>“Tell me what you want.”</p>
<p>Clarke arches her back as he hits a particularly sweet spot inside her. “Bell—” she rasps, mouth gaping as she grips the tops of his thighs tightly.</p>
<p>When all she does is let out another breathy moan, he brings his fingers to a halt, simply resting them inside her. Bending forward to place wet open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck, he murmurs against her neck, “Tell me, Clarke.”</p>
<p>She whines as he bites at the slick skin, throwing her head back as shame pools at her cheeks when she whispers, “You. I need you, Bellamy.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t need telling twice before he releases his length out of its confines and lets them fold together. Her knees part further as he settles just below her, letting Clarke straddle his waist in a way that has Bellamy choking on his own tongue.</p>
<p>Her head knocks back at the angle at which he enters her, spine arching up as his lips find the divot of her throat once more. Clarke threads her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp as their bodies shift closer with every roll of their hips.</p>
<p>Lazy thrusts grow into frantic snaps of their hips, each contact of their skin leaving goosebumps on Clarke’s forearms and her legs shaking with the effort to keep balance on his torso. Bellamy lets out low groans at the way Clarke rises and falls back onto him rhythmically, the noises swallowed by her as she leans down to kiss him. Their teeth clash together as they keep their steady rhythm, both of them panting into the silent night. Clarke can feel her pleasure building to a release, and she can sense Bellamy is close too, as his thrusts get shallower and quicker.</p>
<p>Her thighs burn and shake, arms tremble as she fights to last longer, leaning forward on Bellamy’s chest to stay balanced. She bites her lips until they are swollen, muffling the moans that threaten to rip through her. She feels Bellamy’s thumb trace the bottom of her mouth, tugging the lip from the confines of her teeth.</p>
<p>“I want to hear you,” he says shakily. The hoarseness of his voice and the intense stare into her eyes bring her to a new high.  It’s all Clarke needs before she is falling, Bellamy close behind her, gripping at her hips so hard she knows it will bruise.</p>
<p>Her spine arches, limbs trembling, fingers clawing at Bellamy’s hot skin as she accepts the shattering, clashing visions of pounding white.</p>
<p>Everything and nothing all at once, the heat and pressure causing Clarke to succumb to Bellamy’s heavy touch and weight. Her eyes roll back, breathing stuttering, skin aflame, and she can barely hear Bellamy’s strained sighs over the beating of her own heart.</p>
<p>As they both come down from their highs, sweaty limbs tangling as Clarke lets herself slump onto his chest, she can almost hear the unspoken words lingering in the air.</p>
<p>Their hushed pants grow even as Bellamy tugs Clarke closer to his face, dropping gentle pecks into her curls. Clarke wraps her arms around his shoulders, letting her mouth drop to the space right above where his heart is and listening to his steady heartbeat.</p>
<p>And for a moment, she thinks, maybe if she is quiet enough, she will be able to hear the vows it holds, rather than her own adamant heartache.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(content warning: mild smut)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey Everyone,<br/>So, I really enjoyed writing this chapter ( as you could tell since it's a whopping 5K+ words). I got to explore the topic of mental health and more, and I got to make a bunch of metaphors regarding that (my favourite thing to do). It may come as a shock, how I decided to pursue this story, but I think it is quite fitting and in some cases, would be the consequence of such trauma.<br/>Anyway, enjoy, and check out the content warning as some may find the topic I discuss triggering.<br/>-</p>
<p>(check end notes for content warning.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was an accident. A ‘misunderstanding’.</p>
<p>Clarke couldn’t have been much older than eleven when the light in her life was distinguished with a single swing of a blade.</p>
<p>She doesn’t remember much of the evening.</p>
<p>The months of denial following his death were sure to fade her memory into a haze of blue and black, perhaps as a method of self-preservation.</p>
<p>But what she does know, is made of lies her mother fed her, and the product of her undisturbed imagination.</p>
<p>It was a robbery gone wrong. Two young men in the dark, two figures casting shadows over the cracked coating of the light beige walls of the makeshift alley in a park not far from her childhood home.</p>
<p>It was supposed to be one of the best days of her life. She remembers swallowing back the excitement in her chest as her father took her to the carnival, smiling through the whole drive there.</p>
<p>It was the happiest memories that hurt the most, they were the ones that cut the deepest.</p>
<p>Faint music could be heard from beyond the tall gates with the occasional happy scream suddenly piercing the air. Closer to the entrance, Clarke could see the massive structures of the rides: a rollercoaster, a big wheel, a helter-skelter. Below, younger children stood watching, eating their sweets, and balancing brightly colored balls of soft sugar in their tiny palms.</p>
<p>Standing in the line alongside her father to another ride or swing, she felt the most at peace. Granted she didn’t know much other than peace at that moment in her childhood, but she supposes that was still the happiest she had ever been.</p>
<p>These were the moments she latched on to when she felt herself drift away, even if they were permanently tinted grey.</p>
<p>Then, as fast as she could blink, she was no longer in the brightly illuminated space before the carnival stall. She doesn’t remember why, or how, she found herself behind the curtains draped across the sky. Perhaps, she had followed her father when he had left to smoke a cigarette whilst she stood in line, or maybe she was the one that wandered off.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, she recognized the eerie silence that should have warned her, but before she could decide, cool metal was pressed against her throat, and her fleece was clenched in someone’s hand, pulling her impossibly close.</p>
<p>As her fear set in, and her eyes focused, she could see her father a few meters away, arms raised in defense as his eyes darted between her and the figure that was slowly approaching him.</p>
<p>Clarke would later find out that it was two young men that took away her light, who robbed her of her sanity. She would later be told that they hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt, that he wasn’t supposed to shoot, or that the blade was wielded as a reflex. She would later hear that the men were ‘unstable’, or ‘too young’, ‘unknowing’.</p>
<p>They hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.</p>
<p>When Clarke whispered her father’s name as he backed up against the wall, she didn’t even realize that they had pulled out a gun. She hadn’t noticed her father’s stance grow rigid as he realized he isn’t going to talk his way out this.</p>
<p>No one told Clarke what they wanted even after their trial, as not to burden her. Money? Fear? Entertainment? She wouldn’t know.</p>
<p>Clarke remembers hot tears streaming down her face as she called out to her dad, whose mouth was forming words she couldn’t understand. The sharp edge of the blade was dangerously pushed against her throat, which made her feel nauseous as she struggled against the man’s grip.</p>
<p>His hand would only move up to grip the back of her neck, holding so tight she could feel each fingerprint etch itself onto her skin.</p>
<p>She felt the slight pain, the lightheadedness.</p>
<p>She remembers a gruff voice barking at her to shut up, her father’s pleading one to be quiet.</p>
<p>Out of all things she does remember, it’s the way that the tall figure’s hands shook slightly as he pressed his finger lightly on the trigger, soft enough as to not pull it. She remembers the silly thought that crossed her mind as she tried to focus on something other than the metal at her windpipe: the man wasn’t holding the gun correctly.</p>
<p>His stance too wide, his shoulders too spread, his elbow weakened. Clarke knew enough from the time her father took her to aim practice in the spring, and she felt her knees buck as she tried to contain a sob as her father hissing out something into her direction.</p>
<p>Why couldn’t anyone see what was happening? Where had all the people gone?</p>
<p>Then, as the hand at her neck reached to roughly pull her by her hair, she remembers instinctively letting out a loud shrike, or wail, or cry. And that’s when it all ended.</p>
<p>She remembers the pain that coursed through her as she thought that the blade had finally found its place in the hollow of her neck, but the cold air was what hit her as she was thrown to the ground.</p>
<p>Everything following that happened so fast, Clarke almost didn’t recognize her father as he dodges the armed man whilst he was distracted, reaching towards her in an attempt to drape his body over hers. She recalls the sound of a bullet bouncing off a wall inches from her, her father’s frightened eyes as he finally managed to stagger closer to her.</p>
<p>She almost didn’t notice the figure with the blade draw nearer until his shadow merged with the one of her father’s and the metal sink into the side of his chest.</p>
<p>She, however, didn’t miss the shocked expression that passed over the man’s face as he must’ve realized what he did. His eyes met her for a brief moment before all she knew was her father frame landing near hers.</p>
<p>The blade took place in her father’s chest as if he were nothing, just blood, and bones, carving a cavity between his ribs as it burst crimson into the fading day. His face, so bright in life was frozen, eyes painfully open, mouth slack, as he was propelled backward with the force.</p>
<p>She had crawled up to him and cradled his head in her lap as he blindly blinked up at her, reaching his finger out as if to caress a gold curl that fell over her shoulder.</p>
<p>She would have screamed for help as her tears dripped onto her father’s forehead and disappeared into his hairline. She would have begged him to keep his eyes open as she promised that she would help him.</p>
<p>His eyes held Clarke’s and in those fractions of seconds, he was there and then gone, the warmth of the ages that had been his love simply vanished.</p>
<p>Clarke remembers the way she shook her father’s frame in denial, gasping out childish pleas for him to wake up, to say something, to look at her.</p>
<p>But all she heard in response before they were discovered, was the quiet sad tune of a carousel a small distance away, and her own breathless sobs.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s been so long since that night, yet on this day of the year, Clarke feels as though it were yesterday.</p>
<p>The anniversary of her father’s death crawls up on her each spring, threatening to unfold all of the healing she likes to claim she has gone through -- an endless cycle of grief.</p>
<p>The couple of times she had gone to a therapist, as per her mother’s ‘generous’ demands, proved to have done nothing, and Clarke soon gave up on that. Instead, she buried her pain deep in her heart, and only her nightmares and this godforsaken day were able to reignite it.</p>
<p>So, as she lies in bed in the dark of her quiet room, clutching her pale sheets in her fists, Clarke stares at the tiny gap between her curtains mindlessly.</p>
<p>The early hours of the morning ran together, so bleak that she lost track of time altogether. The only way of telling the time of day was by the length of the tiny ray of sunshine that peeked through her drapes, casting light onto her shoulder.</p>
<p>The only thing that her subconscious made a point of noting was the delicate blue-grey that made up the color of her bedroom’s walls, the muted shade reminding her of something else, the edges of her memory struggling to allow a certain shade of blue into her mind. But the thought disappeared as quickly as it developed, the familiar pair of blue eyes morphing back into her pale wallpaper.</p>
<p>Grief claws at her insides, its immensity leaving Clarke’s heart empty, a sheer of nothingness that takes over her soul and body, threatening to kill her entirely. It is as though someone is tearing into her chest, leaving shards of glass in her flesh, so as she dared to move, the pain would engulf her like flames.</p>
<p>Yet, she did not cry.</p>
<p>Her eyes were dry with the minimal amount of times she let herself blink, glistening in the dark, a glassy look upon them.</p>
<p>She was numb, yet somehow in agony. She longed to be free of him, yet she wanted him back more than she’d ever wanted anything.</p>
<p>As the hours piled on, and the white light outside turned a warm yellow, Clarke did not leave her spot, plastered onto the sheets as though she was restrained.</p>
<p>She heard Bellamy shuffle around her apartment as the time must’ve hit mid-day. She could almost sense his worried glances, his stiff posture, his wringing hands, as he cautiously watched her from the doorway.</p>
<p>He knew what today was, and he knew that there was nothing he could do, and as Clarke had instructed a week prior, he did not try to get her to do anything.</p>
<p>And as much as Clarke valued his attentiveness, his presence made it that much harder. She could not stand being looked at like a broken doll, and she supposes that it is exactly what she must look like right now. Another thing that needs to be fixed.</p>
<p>At some point, she hears a different voice fill the quiet of her apartment, a hushed whisper outside of her hallway.</p>
<p>“Bell, it’s nearing afternoon. Don’t you think she should get up soon?”</p>
<p>“It’s not our decision, O. She can take all the time she needs.”</p>
<p>“But has she even had anything to eat?”</p>
<p>“She isn’t going to starve herself. If she wants to eat, she will let us know.” Clarke thinks she can hear a sliver of doubt in his voice as Bellamy whispers it. “She isn’t a child.”</p>
<p>Clarke hates the fact that they are speaking as though she isn’t there, merely a few meters away. She hates being perceived as helpless, yet she can’t gather the will to say anything about it.</p>
<p>She doesn’t care.</p>
<p>Octavia leaves soon after, whispering something to Bellamy that Clarke doesn’t pick up.</p>
<p>She senses his presence near her before he even takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. Warmth radiates off him like it always does, and Clarke longs to curl up against his side. She wills her muscles to move, yet all she manages is a soft exhale to acknowledge his presence.</p>
<p>She feels his hand graze her cheek lightly, so softly that she almost doesn’t feel it. He moves it into her curls, beginning to stroke her hair gently, grazing his nails against her scalp.</p>
<p>Clarke tucks her chin beneath the covers as her breathing evens out, relishing his touch. She so wishes that she could be alone right now, but she finds that she has no strength to tell him to leave.</p>
<p>Bellamy’s fingers get tangled in her unruly curls every so often, sending a tingling down Clarke’s back.</p>
<p>He whispers something then, so quietly that she doesn’t catch it. Her ears seem to be accustomed to the quiet, so the noises all blend into one big haze.</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t know how long he stays there, the bed tented under his weight, his fingers weaving slow patterns. It gets too much too fast, his warmth intoxicating yet suffocating at the same time.</p>
<p>“Bellamy,” she whispers to get his attention, as though she didn’t already. His hand freezes in its place in her hair, body going stiff as he’s caught.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I thought you were asleep.”</p>
<p>Clarke hums in response as he retracts his hand to rest it in his lap.</p>
<p>They fall into silence, listening in to each other’s breaths, as though trying to decipher what the other is thinking.</p>
<p>Clarke can feel her mind closing in, her chest tightening as she squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t do this right now, and she doesn’t want Bellamy to see her fall apart.</p>
<p>“Bell,” she calls out again. He hums in response, and she can feel his gaze on her face. “Can you get me something?”</p>
<p>“Of course, anything you need.” Clarke can feel his hand twitch at her side in anxiousness.</p>
<p>“I want something to eat.”</p>
<p>“We have some takeout left over. Is that okay?” Clarke scrunches up her nose lightly as a sign of dismissal. “Or I could run down to the store?”</p>
<p>Clarke nods gently, twitches the corner of her lip upward as an attempt at a grin. It comes out like a grimace.</p>
<p>Bellamy shifts on the bed restlessly. “Are you going to be okay alone for a bit?”</p>
<p>She can see his reluctance to leave her side and if it were any other day, she would have found it endearing. But now, as much as she appreciates Bellamy, she wants to be alone.</p>
<p>Clarke nods again, punctuating it by shifting her leg ever so slightly so that it brushes at his thigh.</p>
<p>Bellamy lets out a heavy breath before rising from the bed. He walks up to her and crouches lightly to press his lips softly against her forehead, lingering for a few seconds before he’s pulling away with a sigh.</p>
<p>Clarke relaxes as soon as he’s out of the room, and she can hear the light click of the lock of the front door. She buries her head deeper in her comforter, hugging her arms around her frame.</p>
<p>It’s when the apartment is quiet once more that she allows the silent tears to leave her eyes, the pillow dampening with every heave of sorrow she finally lets out.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke traces lazy circles on Bellamy’s chest, watching it rise with every inhale of his breath. The night is still once more, and she feels her mind is strangely empty, an odd sense of peace flowing through her body. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy stares up at the ceiling, his hands resting around Clarke’s shoulders, still and heavy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Do you think I could’ve done something differently?” Clarke whispers suddenly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy makes a low noise at the back of his throat, shifting beneath her lightly. “What?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“That night. With my dad. I can’t help but think—”, Clarke clears her throat as it clenches, holding back tears, “—think that maybe there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke can still feel her heart heavy with guilt, and the tears now gather in her eyes freely. The numbness that she despised has morphed into pain, and she begins to think she preferred the latter.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bellamy breathes out deeply, blowing a strand of her into Clarke's face. She tugs it away, not meeting his eyes, although she can’t feel him looking down at her anyway.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Of course,” is all he offers, as though it’s obvious. Clarke tenses in his grasp, unexpecting this answer.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She remains quiet as she thinks over what he said. Bellamy seems indifferent, gently palming the skin of her shoulder.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“After all,” he continues, “it was you that screamed. The only reason the blade cut your father and not you, was because he was trying to save you. Like everyone always does. Always trying to save precious Clarke.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke freezes in his embrace, vision hazy with unshed tears as she listens to him voice all her deepest fears with such an even tone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“And now,” his hand drifts up to her face, caressing her cheek and Clarke tries not to look up at him, “you will end me too. Just like you did your father.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke finally tears away from his arms, shaking his hands off violently as she wipes furiously at her tears. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When she finally looks up at Bellamy, she gasps in horror, jumping back against the bedpost as she stares at his face. His eyes bloodshot, forehead coated with dark blood, oozing out of his ears, nose, wound. He smiles at her softly, but the eyes that stare back at her aren’t his. They aren’t her Bellamy’s.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He holds her gaze as he concludes, “After all, all those you love die or leave you.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke lets out a sob as she curls up into herself on the corner of the bed, her muscles unable to carry her off it. She watches as the white sheets turn red, the wound at Bellamy’s side leaving them soaked in blood.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not real, not real, not real.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“But don’t worry sweetheart, I’m still here.” Clarke's lip quivers as she struggles to form words, flinching from every sentence that leaves Bellamy’s mouth. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. It’s just fair that you get what you deserve.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A bruised hand reaches towards her face, Bellamy’s frame coming closer to tower over her as she trembles. His bloodied fingernails trace the outline of her lips and down her chin. He pulls it up roughly, tilting her head back to get down to her face so that she can feel his breath on hers.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sweetly, and with pride, he whispers, “I’m in love with a killer.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke lets out a pained whimper, hugging her arms around her knees, ducking her head away from Bellamy. Then, his arm drops, and his body goes limp.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Unmoving, splayed across the bed and Clarke’s lap, she sees him lie. The rhythmical rise and fall of his chest are gone, a silence stretching across the room.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bellamy?” Clarke shakes his bloodied limp frame with her trembling hands. Her mind struggles to catch up to what is happening, and before she knows it, she is sobbing once more over his body.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her fingers, glistening in red, tangled in his curls as she cups his face between her lap, her tears dripping onto his face as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She can taste the iron in the blood she draws, and she relishes in the feeling. She stares down at him, a numbness taking over her mind. The now browning blood had drizzled down his face like so much rain down a windowpane, and his eyes were still open.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Despite the vacant look in them as he stares up at the ceiling, the dark brown of his eyes shine, yellow ringlets melting into golden rays of sunshine, circling an eclipse. The eyes that had once held hers with love and adoration, now devoid of all life because of her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You killed him, Clarke. You killed all of them.</em>
</p>
<p>Her eyes snap open, burning with sour tears that leave wet trails down her face, her pillow damp with grief. Cold sweat envelops Clarke entirely, tremors fighting their way out as she tries to remain still. Heaving out short breaths she is trying to lengthen and even out, Clarke can feel her heart pounding against her ribcage.</p>
<p>She tries so desperately to fight past the paranoia that has settled in, to restrain her eyes from darting around the room in an attempt to find the mangled body of her boyfriend, eyes as lifeless as they were in her nightmare.</p>
<p>Gathering enough strength to push herself up and out of her bed for the first time that day, she stumbles to the bathroom. She shivers and feels goosebumps coat her skin as she comes in contact with the cool air.</p>
<p>Clarke glances in the mirror cautiously as she nears it, almost afraid of what she might see, as she dumps water on her face to wash away the salty tears that have left her face red and blotchy.</p>
<p>The sun, that tells her that it must be nearing late afternoon, shines through the window, a stark contrast to the cold Clarke feels run through her veins as she thinks she sees a shadow behind her in the mirror. The face, so familiar yet unrecognizable due to the blood that coat’s it's features, stares up at her as blankly as she had just seen.</p>
<p>And then, with the blink of her eyes, and a feeling of dread at the back of her neck, it is gone, and she is once again left alone in the empty room.</p>
<p>At that moment, she wishes Bellamy were here, to reassure her that it was just a nightmare – that he was alive.</p>
<p>But how can she call it a nightmare, if it doesn't leave her presence when she awakes?</p>
<p>She feels like she is suffocating once more, the walls of her bathroom closing in on her and devouring her soul entirely.</p>
<p>But maybe it would be better that way anyway – maybe that way, she couldn’t hurt those that she loves.</p>
<p>Her bloodshot eyes stare back at her in the mirror as she grips the sink and leans forward to keep her balance as her breathing doesn’t return to her. The gentle blue of her eyes does nothing to calm her but only reminds her of another set of eyes that only haunt her in her dreams.</p>
<p>Because she killed him too.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The breeze brushes Clarke’s cheeks, the touch so gentle that she almost wants to flinch. She doesn’t deserve delicacy.</p>
<p>Her legs had carried her to the rooftop, her mind, and room too loud with the screams of accusation and guilt.</p>
<p>No matter how many times she is told it’s not her fault, she can’t help but wish she could simply pull away and make it so much easier for everyone and herself.</p>
<p>Perhaps, if she were to cut them all off, she couldn’t bring any more pain.</p>
<p>Her feet pull her up to her favorite spot on the ledge before she even recognizes that all she sees in front of her now, is the bustling cityscape of Chicago and the numerous floors below her.</p>
<p>Yet, unlike she always would, she doesn’t crouch down to sit on its surface and dangle her feet off the edge.</p>
<p>The setting sun had seized the sky into one of fire, it’s orange like a wintry hearth, and it’s yellow like home. Only the dense clouds obscured the light from illuminating the top of Clarke’s building. She stared blankly into the horizon, the sky glowing pink, watching the sharp peaks of the skyscrapers all around her rip holes in the clouds. Through the wound, the colors of sunset bled and burnt her mind.</p>
<p>Not sunrise, because sunrise is rebirth. Sunset, because sunset is expiration.</p>
<p>It is so comfortable to be constantly numb. To pain, to happiness. But there reaches a point in which you long to feel something – anything – again, whether it be pain or grief. And as Clarke stands at the edge of the rooftop, the height at which she looks down on from below begins to look compelling.</p>
<p>She isn’t going to jump.</p>
<p>But being so close to the clouds that seem to envelop her, and the purple sky that seems awfully close, she thinks of whether that is the worst thing that could happen. Perhaps, a single step, an inch from where she stands, would be enough to silence her mind.</p>
<p>Clarke closes her eyes as the last rays of sunshine trace her features, their warmth almost like a touch, a gentle whisper against her otherwise coarse skin. The slight heat is enthralling, seemingly everlasting, and Clarke lets her wonder for a second if that is what it feels like to be at peace. Surrounded by warmth and calm, and silence that isn’t sinister or suffocating.</p>
<p>How long had she been pretending that her quiet demeanor and lack of willpower was simply a side effect of being an introvert? How long had she been denying the fact that nothingness seems so much sweeter than living every day with a burden on your shoulders the size of the world?</p>
<p>The fire in Clarke's eyes has long died out, as though dowsed with cold water, seemingly turning her blue eyes paler. Her actions and movements turning into a job in themselves. She moves her eyes more slowly, like they're heavy, an effort to move.</p>
<p>Each thought, each brushstroke, each step – meaningless. Insubstantial.</p>
<p>But now, so close to something <em>more</em>, she finds that she feels at peace. She feels weightless as she stares directly into the sun, the light burning sensation somehow making her feel powerful.</p>
<p>Perhaps, when it seems that life has a way of screwing you over so many times that you feel the decisions you make aren’t your own, the thin line between life and death becomes the only thing there is power over.</p>
<p>Maybe, she feels she finally has a choice.</p>
<p>Her heart stings at the thought of leaving Bellamy, for not considering him until now. But with him, deep in her heart, is buried the guilt she cannot rid of. How can she help someone else when she can’t even help herself?</p>
<p>The city below her feet is as lively as ever, but the noise that it emits is hazed, unimportant. Not when Clarke can almost hear her father’s laughter and feel his embrace once more from so high up, so close.</p>
<p>Clarke had always loved heights. Perhaps, that is why this one is calling to her.</p>
<p>“Clarke?”</p>
<p>She didn’t look back as the palette of the sky had already compelled her into its grasp.</p>
<p>“Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice grew louder now, more frantic as she heard him near her from behind. His footsteps sound cautious, almost scared. As though he feels a wrong move will tip her over.</p>
<p>And maybe it may.</p>
<p>With a tilt of her head to the right, Clarke locks eyes with Bellamy. His eyes convey too much, and Clarke tries her best not to look away. Sadness, guilt, terror. Almost a mirror reflection to herself.</p>
<p>With a glance at her, Bellamy seems to wake up. She doesn’t know what he sees that makes him take another step towards her, but it’s enough to have her knees start shaking with the sudden weight she feels in her chest.</p>
<p>He must see the vulnerability – the fragility. And Clarke hates it.</p>
<p>“Clarke, please—” she shrinks away slightly as he takes a step closer, and instantly freezes as she does, “—just— Clarke.” He takes a shaky breath, eyes glistening as he stares up at her a few meters away. She can see his fists clench and unclench as he thinks of what to say.</p>
<p>“I know you, Clarke, and I know you don’t have to do this. I know it hurts but I’m here—for you—and I want you to know that I always will be,” he takes another deep breath as he attempts at another step closer to her, at which she doesn’t flinch this time, “I hear you.”</p>
<p>She can almost hear the pain in his voice, the way it cracks every time he mutters her name.</p>
<p>Clarke closes her eyes and looks back at the sunset once more. The sun had disappeared amidst the buildings now, and the only evidence that there had once been light is the warmth that lingers on Clarke’s skin. She inhales the night, savoring the taste of freedom.</p>
<p>“I know you are tired of fighting. Let me fight for you. Let me help you. I don't think you are beyond help, no matter what you say. You might not be able to see this right now, but your death would hurt so many of those you love. I know you are in pain and it feels like it will never end. And – call me selfish, but I can’t do this without you, Clarke.”</p>
<p>He is right about one thing. She is so tired of fighting.</p>
<p>She is so tired of holding up a front, a façade that only he gets to look past. She is exhausted to the point that she doesn’t know what sleep even feels like anymore. She can almost feel her throat clog up as her limbs begin to feel so heavy, and her mind seems to simply go blank.</p>
<p>“Bellamy,” she whispers, turning her body just enough to let him stride towards her immediately and fall into his arms.</p>
<p>His embrace. The only thing that seemed to ground her even when she felt like her body wasn’t her own. The soft, yet strong, clench of his arms around her shoulders, tight to the point that she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. The only feeling of entrapment she would accept.</p>
<p>His chin rests on top of her head, his curls buried deep in her curls, grasping her so hard she doesn’t think she could escape even if she tried.</p>
<p>Bellamy whispers something then, angry and hushed and filled with feeling, and she can feel the wetness of his tears drip into her hair and slide down her temple, mixing with her own.</p>
<p>Clarke must mutter something back, because his gasps for breath only got heavier, and her body was shaking with the force of his tremoring frame.</p>
<p>Like a mantra, she can hear herself whisper that she wasn’t going to do it, over and over again into his collarbone. And, like a mantra, she thinks she hears him whisper that he loves her again and again, each time with more power than the last.</p>
<p>And for a moment, Clarke thinks there is still a way to make it okay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(content warning: implied/referenced suicide attempt, and/or suicidal thoughts.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey again,<br/>So sorry for the huge delay in posting this chapter... with school starting up again, I've been super busy and distracted.<br/>This is the second last chapter and more of a calm one.<br/>Anyway, enjoy. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being suspended in time isn’t as luxurious or elegant as one might expect.</p>
<p>It is feeling as though you are doing absolutely everything yet totally nothing with every step you take, with every hurried glance you spare.</p>
<p>It is feeling a shiver run down your spine with a simple touch of the hand, as though your skin has starved of it for decades.</p>
<p>It is feeling the pair of eyes that had felt so warm, now cautious and afraid, looking at you as though you are merely a deer in the forest, and every uncalculated move may make you run wild.</p>
<p>At least, that’s what Clarke has felt for the past week and a half. Or, nine days and twelve hours, as she counted. It seems that it’s the only thing she can do now, considering that she feels as though she is in a self-mediated prison with glass windows and unlocked doors.</p>
<p>Bellamy hasn’t let her out of his sight.</p>
<p>She would find it endearing if it weren’t for the fact that he stares at her as if she were a porcelain figurine.</p>
<p>He must think she is unstable, fragile – <em>insane</em>. And it makes Clarke regret everything she’d ever said and done to make him look at her this way.</p>
<p>But she knows he understands, and that he is terrified that a wrong move on his end will drag her back to the roof. His concern isn’t unprecedented, but it's definitely futile.</p>
<p>Bellamy, out of all people, should know that she isn’t unhinged. Simply lost, or whatever else they call it.</p>
<p>Clarke has basically moved into his apartment. Even before the ledge, her things were starting to shift a floor above, his cupboards filling up with her clothes. The living room began to get messier, and art supplies now coated the entirety of the coffee table.</p>
<p>They never talked about it, though now Clarke is starting to think that it would be the logical thing to do. But she isn’t going to be the one proposing it, so she decided to leave it up to Bellamy.</p>
<p>But seeing how her laundry now mixes with his, and how her bed hasn’t been slept in for weeks, it’s just a matter of time.</p>
<p>Yet, even though they are practically attached at the hip, their minds can’t be further away.</p>
<p>They seemed to grow apart, as much as it is possible. Dinners became silent, conversations shorter, looks wearier.</p>
<p>The nights were the hardest, though. They were still wrapped around each other in an embrace, and Bellamy’s hand still traced circles on Clarke’s hip, but their breaths never mingled, and sleep was not as peaceful as it once was.</p>
<p>Clarke gathers that he must resent her. As incredulous as it sounds even in her mind, it is the only conclusion she was able to draw from the cold shoulder Bellamy had turned to her. And it makes the pit in her stomach that much wider, and the pain that much stronger.</p>
<p>He must blame himself for it. He must think that he wasn’t enough for her, that his understanding, care, and affection wasn’t what Clarke needed.</p>
<p>And she doesn’t reprimand him for it, because she never gave him a reason for why her feet were so close to the edge of the roof.</p>
<p>Quite frankly, she hasn’t even decided as to what truly was the reason that her mind seemed to float away, and her body takes control of itself.</p>
<p>She wasn’t going to jump, she knows that. But it doesn’t make it any easier to understand what brought her there in the first place.</p>
<p>The restless nights prove that. She stares up at the ceiling hours on end, occasionally trailing her fingertips across Bellamy’s shoulder as though to make sure he was still there.</p>
<p>She knew he wasn’t asleep either, because his breath still caught when her skin grazed his.</p>
<p>But it was never more than that. A simple breath, perhaps a stolen glance. Never anything more. Words seemed to no longer exist between them.</p>
<p>So, Clarke tried to convey what she couldn't say in how hard her arms tugged at his waist.</p>
<p>A light hug. Reminder she was still there. A tug on his left shoulder. Gesture to show him she knew he wasn’t asleep either. A drawn-out stretch of her entire body. She longed for him. A life-threatening squeeze around his torso. I’m sorry.</p>
<p>Bellamy never replied. Simply tangled his fingers in her hair and rested his chin on her temple.</p>
<p>That is, until tonight.</p>
<p>Tonight, one of his arms rested behind his head, and one by his side. He lay flat on his side of the bed, and no look was spared in her direction as she settled in at her own.</p>
<p>Clarke looks at his in confusion, crossing her legs as she sits in the middle of the bed since her side of the bed is usually empty and cold, so she doesn’t want to settle into it. She lets out a long exhale as Bellamy makes no move to reach toward her.</p>
<p>This time, with the pale light, she can see his eyes glisten in the dark. She can see his chew on his bottom lip as he stares at the ceiling like normal.</p>
<p>She doesn’t understand.</p>
<p>With a huff, and because she is now getting cold, she makes a show of throwing the covers off the corner of the bed and climbing in. She turns her back to him as her head hits the pillow and shuts her eyes. As if that’ll make the absence of his arms around her any easier to bear.</p>
<p>Clarke tries to focus on the shallow breaths she hears him take, but it isn’t the same as hearing his heart pound in his chest. A rhythm seemingly only for her.</p>
<p>She can feel the tenseness in the room, and she hates it. What she hates more, however, is the fact that she doesn’t even know why it is this way tonight.</p>
<p>Then, she feels the bed rise and the weight next to her is no longer there. She has to force herself not to look in his direction as Bellamy shuffles at the back of the room.</p>
<p>“Get dressed.”</p>
<p>His voice is hoarse, probably from lack of use, and it sends a shiver down Clarke’s spine, nevertheless. It is commanding, yet soft, and so very Bellamy.</p>
<p>She twists her neck a little to watch him pull a shirt on at the foot of the bed. His scars seem to glisten in the moonlight. His eyes catch her as he spins around, and the heavy gaze is enough to send Clarke tumbling out of bed to throw a sweater on and follow him as he marches down the hall.</p>
<p>She nearly breaks as he grabs her hand in the doorway at the scared glance she sends him, and then they are headed up the stairs.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s pitch black outside, and soft city lights do nothing to lighten the darkness.</p>
<p>The accent of summer lingers in the air, but the mild humidity doesn’t take away from the chills that run across Clarke’s skin.</p>
<p>Bellamy’s hand in still clutching Clarke’s, and it seems that he is using her touch to anchor himself to the ground. His eyes rake over the corner at which she stood merely a week ago as if it’s tainted.</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes follow his, yet she feels no dread or difference as she stares at the ledge. It feels almost surreal, the fact that she had held death in her palms when her feet grazed the edge of it and her eyes glared at the setting sun.</p>
<p>Bellamy chooses to walk onto the opposite edge of the rooftop.</p>
<p>Clarke will never get tired of the view of this city. She can stare at the jagged outline of the high-rising buildings endlessly, watching as the sun rose and sunk at the horizon.</p>
<p>Even the dark blue that paints the sky right now is calling out to her as her hand tugs on Bellamy’s, her hands itching to touch the fading clouds or grab a paintbrush.</p>
<p>She looks up at him when she feels his hand detach from hers, but he doesn’t look down to meet her eyes. His eyes are focused on something she can’t see, and their glossy sheen is both entrancing and agonizing.</p>
<p>“When I saw the empty bed after I got back from the store, I assumed you went upstairs for some fresh air.” His fingers fiddle with the woven band around his wrist, the one she’d made for him as a joke. She finds it endearing. “But seeing you —so close to— it just –”</p>
<p>Clarke watches his mouth gape open a few times as he tries to continue. The silence proves him incapable.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing she can say.</p>
<p>He looks up at the sky as though is pain, wringing his hand through his messy hair. Clarke takes notice of the darkness under his eyes that seems to be permanent now.</p>
<p>“That’s not—” When he finally meets her eyes, the weeks of silence and near-repression seem to fade into nonexistence because all she can see now is him. Purely him.</p>
<p>“—you don’t have to say sorry, Clarke. You just have to understand that it’s not going to be okay if you simply ignore it. It doesn’t just disappear. They don’t just go away if you decide that you don’t want them anymore.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t have to ask him what he means by ‘them’. It’s the ghosts, the demons, the whispers of our past that are always by our sides. Like leeches, they feed off of us and we ask for nothing in return. We simply let be. And if that means that they eventually take away everything, then it is simply that. Because they never truly go away, and Clarke has learned to live with that.</p>
<p>Bellamy parts his lips once more and inhales sharply, eyes flashing with something familiar. But when she looks up at him in question, he shakes it away and the glint in his eye disappears.</p>
<p>“Bell—”</p>
<p>“I think I’m falling in love with you.”</p>
<p>He says it as though there is a gun to his head and if he doesn’t let her know, they’ll pull the trigger.</p>
<p>Before she can say anything else, he tears his eyes away from her face and decides the ground is far more interesting.</p>
<p>“Much faster and harder than I would’ve thought. And I can’t bear to lose you or watch you slip away. I can’t just sit by and do nothing when you’re suffering so much. I would never forgive myself for letting you go. Because you are just – so much, Clarke – and you mean <em>so</em> much. To me, to your friends, to everyone. And I want to help you. Or help you find help – so please, Clarke, let me help you –”</p>
<p>“It’s not your job to <em>fix</em> me, Bellamy. You have a life too, and you shouldn’t have to deal with this. You have your own problems and you shouldn’t burden yourself with mine.”</p>
<p>“No, Clarke.” He draws out her name as though it’s a lifeline. “I can’t do ‘<em>this</em>’ without you.”</p>
<p>She is starting to get used to the silence that follows each outburst, especially one lingering with something more.</p>
<p>Clarke wraps her arms around her torso in reassurance, but it does nothing to substitute for the warmth of Bellamy’s.</p>
<p>“Tell me this won’t happen again.” She can feel his eyes burn into the side of her neck from the stare. “Tell me that another bad day won’t bring you here. Tell me that you don’t need help.” His fingers graze the shell of her ear. “Tell me you’re okay, Clarke. And maybe then I’ll let you go.”</p>
<p>Clarke focuses her eyes on a tiny flash of light in the distance. A glimpse of something brighter than the shadows dancing on the peeling walls of the stairway booth in the center on the rooftop. Her pupils follow the light until it too fades away and she’s forced to stare down at her feet.</p>
<p>She feels Bellamy shuffle on his feet and let out a deep breath. “You can’t even look me in the eyes.”</p>
<p>Clarke tries desperately to ignore the way his voice breaks at the end.</p>
<p>Bellamy pulls her hand from around her waist and holds them in his so gently, the touch shouldn’t even be possible. He traces the creases in her palm, mapping out something Clarke doesn’t quite see.</p>
<p>“What if next time— ". A shaky breath. “—What if, I don’t get there in time?”</p>
<p>She wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about it. That it wasn’t what he thought. But, she cannot promise him what is beyond her control.</p>
<p>At the ledge, the wind in her hair, it was as though her body wasn’t her own, and her mind wasn’t in control.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Bell.” Do those words lose meaning once they have been used so much? Can simple phrases ever become spent?</p>
<p>Bellamy doesn’t reply. She can’t blame him. Even she can tell that she is apologizing for all the wrong reasons.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t going to do it, you know?” Do lies ever morph into truth, once you’ve convinced yourself of their existence?</p>
<p>His grip on her hands tighten. She risks a glance at his face and nearly recoils at the look of pure pain etched onto it. They are looks like these that make Clarke want to erase the past weeks, months, of torture. Looks like these make her wish her existence doesn’t hurt him as much as it does.</p>
<p>Tenderly, almost as if talking to a child that is holding something they could hurt themselves with, he utters, “Asking for help doesn’t make you weak or helpless, Clarke.”</p>
<p>She isn’t going to convince him that it, indeed, does. Because it took her years to come to terms with that.</p>
<p>“And what if I don’t deserve help? What if I don’t want it?”</p>
<p>His hands fall back to his sides. Blue eyes finally meet brown ones.</p>
<p>“Then do it for me.”</p>
<p>If only it were that easy. The look she sends him conveys as much, and she can see that Bellamy knew it was a long-shot. She can almost read the unspoken words on his lips. <em>Do it for us.</em></p>
<p>It is the stillness in which he mutters the next words that scare her. Perhaps it is the moonlight making his skin so pale, the lack of mind letting every hair hang without movement, she’s not sure. He doesn’t even blink, averting his eyes into the distance as though he is afraid of what she will say. “Do you love me, Clarke?”</p>
<p>“Bellamy—”</p>
<p>“Do you?”</p>
<p>She hates that this is how she has to say it for the first time. Because he deserves so much more. But if he needs to hear her say it, she will.</p>
<p>“Of course, I love you, Bellamy.”</p>
<p>She wants to say how much she hates that she does. How much she hates how deeply she has fallen for him. She wants to bury the feeling deep down and never let it see the light of day, yet, she also wants to make it known to the world that he is the one that makes her want to continue breathing.</p>
<p>He is, after all, the only reason that her feet remained on the hard surface of the roof.</p>
<p>“Then isn’t that enough?”</p>
<p>Clarke will just have to believe that it is. For him.</p>
<p>Bellamy tugs at his collar in that endearing way that she loves, and Clarke tries her best to hide the tiny grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth.</p>
<p>Then, his eyes meet hers once more and she admires the way they glint in the dim light. His hands reach for her own, and she accepts the way they envelop them entirely.</p>
<p>“I can’t give up on you,” Bellamy leans forward until their foreheads meet, “so please don’t give up on yourself. And if it isn’t me that you need right now, to listen or confide in, that’s okay too. I just—”</p>
<p>The soft press of her lips against his has always worked it’s magic – to shut him up or otherwise.</p>
<p>Clarke tries to pour in everything that she feels, thinks, wants to say but can’t, into this kiss.</p>
<p>He tastes like home. Like bittersweet memories and honey.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” she mumbles against his lips. She hopes he understands what she means.</p>
<p>Then, when they pull away to rest their foreheads together once more, Clarke relishes in the way she can feel his breath mingle with his. She stares into his eyes to find that look again, her refuge.</p>
<p>“I got you. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” He understands.</p>
<p>Clarke finally understands what that hidden emotion in his eyes is. That look that she seemed to never be able to decipher. Now, it’s weird to think she hadn’t noticed it before.</p>
<p>It’s love. It’s affection. It’s care.</p>
<p>It’s what she has dreaded and feared for as long as she can remember. But somehow, at this moment, it seems that it is exactly what she had always needed.</p>
<p>It is what she needs to heal, to fight. To come back to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The dull sound of the dialing ringtone.</p>
<p>“Mom?”</p>
<p>A surprised intake of air.</p>
<p>“Clarke?”</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>“I need help.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>~</p>
<p>(Kudos + comments are always cherished &lt;3)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey Everyone,</p>
<p>I am so sorry for this very long wait. I have recently moved houses and it has been highly chaotic. Either way, it is finally here, and unfortunately, it's the last. I want to say thank you to any of you that have stuck with me until here -- it's been great. But, I am currently working on a one-shot, so it's not a goodbye for long. </p>
<p>I just wanted to say how therapeutic writing this story was. I was able to connect with the characters and even include things that relate to my own life. Coming into writing this at the start, I didn't know I'd enjoy creating a new world so much, but now I get why authors can't stop writing once they start. So thank you for reading this story and reflecting, much as I did. :)</p>
<p>Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this final chapter! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clarke never really understood the point of marriage.</p>
<p>Ink etched onto a gold-rimmed piece of paper. Names engraved in a fancy font. Surname erased and replaced. Willfully bounded to another person for as long as you shall live, or until one of them gets bored.</p>
<p>Who would ever want that?</p>
<p>Merely two years ago, she would have flinched at the idea when her mother would bring it up during the occasional phone call.</p>
<p>“Find a nice man,” she would say, as though Clarke’s ultimate fate would simply be another housewife.</p>
<p>“Or a woman, Mom,” is all that she would reply because she knew denying it would only prolong the inevitable.</p>
<p>But she has changed since then. A lot. And not entirely in the way that she would’ve liked.</p>
<p>Standing in the dressing room in the hall of the wedding ceremony, she can’t force herself to believe that this marriage will end in what she has always believed it would. Because with one look at Octavia’s face as she twirls in her gown in front of the mirror, she knows it isn’t so simple.</p>
<p>“Clarke!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sorry, what?” Her head snaps up towards the bride, thoughts thrown amidst.</p>
<p>“Is it normal to be terrified? I mean, I know nothing bad is going to happen, but like – you know…? Ugh! Is it time? We’ve been here for like 4 hours. You would’ve thought that maybe it should’ve started by now, but no, I’m still standing in this huge-ass dress as though I’m some kind of mannequin!”</p>
<p>Clarke groans. As much as she loves Octavia, the past few weeks have been torture.</p>
<p>She’s been bouncing around for what seems like every minute of the day, organizing, practicing, talking, planning, talking, worrying, talking. Clarke’s apartment has become somewhat of a meeting spot for Octavia to run in at any moment and complain about yet another setback in her wedding planning.</p>
<p>It makes Clarke not want to ever get married even more.</p>
<p>“Octavia!” Her hands come up to grab her forearms. “Calm down.”</p>
<p>Octavia takes a deep breath before looking back at Clarke and trying for an easy grin. She can see her anxiety through the way the corner of her mouth twitches as she tries to hold the smile and wring her hands in the silky folds of her dress.</p>
<p>“You’re going to be fine, trust me. And it won’t kill you to be a little patient.” Clarke runs her hand through Octavia’s hair to smooth down the forming frizz. “Stop sweating, it’s ruining your hair.”</p>
<p>Octavia rolls her eyes. “I just want to get it over with.”</p>
<p>Clarke scoffs. “Isn’t this supposed to be the ‘best day of your life’?”</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up. We’ll see how you act when Bell finally pops the question.”</p>
<p>A chill runs down Clarke’s spine as she ignores the remark and continues fixing Octavia’s hair.</p>
<p>She’s thought about it, of course. But every time she thinks of marriage, the word leaves a sour taste in her mouth.</p>
<p>It’s not that she wouldn’t want to be forever bound to Bellamy, legally or not, it’s the connotations that come with the simple idea. Wedding. Marriage. Children.</p>
<p>“Stop thinking so loud, you’re giving me a headache. I think we both know it’s going to happen sooner or later.” Octavia has walked away from her back to the mirror, staring at herself with a worried expression.</p>
<p>“Better later than sooner,” Clarke whispers to herself.</p>
<p>She walks over to her, running her eyes along with her figure.</p>
<p>“You think he’s gonna like it?” Octavia asks, patting the layers of white down.</p>
<p>“Lincoln is going to love it, O. You look stunning.” There isn’t a doubt in her voice.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” she grins, looking back at her friend. Clarke notices her eyes get watery as her smile trembles.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, hey, none of that. Thank you. There is no way I’m redoing your makeup.”</p>
<p>Octavia lets out a choked laugh as she throws her head back to wipe at her eyes.</p>
<p>Clarke feels so light, so full, watching her best friend shuffle on her feet with nerves and excitement. She deserves as much, and she wouldn’t want anyone else to have Octavia in this way. Lincoln is perfect for her.</p>
<p>The door in the corner of the room creaks open and Bellamy pokes his head in. Clarke watches as his eyes and smile widen as he takes both of them in.</p>
<p>He’s come to terms with her sister’s relationship, realizing nothing he says or does is going to change anything anyway. He’s watched her grow, and now, as hard as it may be, he’s going to watch her blossom. Even if he may not admit it, Lincoln had grown on him, and Clarke can see how happy he is for his sister.</p>
<p>Bellamy’s eyes land on Clarke and she swears she can see his breath leave him. Her skin tingles as he trails his eyes down her body. Only when his eyes land on Clarke’s does her heart stop pounding.</p>
<p>“It’s time,” he voices, but his eyes never leave Clarke’s.</p>
<p>Octavia pushes past her to the doorway, and Bellamy plants a kiss on her cheek, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle uncharacteristically. She hits his shoulder as she walks out, throwing Clarke a wink before the door slams closed.</p>
<p>“You know you’re the one that’s walking her down the aisle, right?”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>In two long steps, his hands are on her waist and his lips are at her ear. “You look gorgeous.”</p>
<p>She sighs into his shoulder. What she would give to hide away in there for a while longer.</p>
<p>Bellamy trails his mouth down the side of her neck and presses a hot kiss to the juncture of her shoulder. Clarke tries her best to muffle the embarrassing sound that escapes her throat.</p>
<p>“Bell,” she warns.</p>
<p>He hums into her skin. “We have time.”</p>
<p>Clarke laughs into his jaw as she presses a featherlight kiss into the stubble-free softness. “It’s your sister’s wedding. We can’t.”</p>
<p>Bellamy drops his head to her chest. “Did you have to mention my sister? It kind of ruins the whole I-want-to-take-you-right-here mood,” he whines.</p>
<p>Clarke can’t stop the huge smile that overtakes her mouth as she peppers a few last kisses onto his cheek and pulls away. God, she loves this man.</p>
<p>She stretches her hand to grab his own and starts pulling him towards the doorway. Walking towards Octavia, who is smirking knowingly at her near the entrance to the hall, she tries to hide the tiny pop in her step. Tilting her head up to Bellamy’s ear before they part, she whispers in the most seductive tone she can muster. “Later.”</p>
<p>Judging by the shaky breath he takes as he links arms with Octavia, she’d succeeded.</p>
<p>“You two are gross.”</p>
<p>Clarke snaps her head to the side, eyeing Murphy as he fakes a gag and walks up to her. “Shut up.”</p>
<p>In true Murphy fashion, he throws her a smirk. Clarke knows he means well, even if he doesn’t like showing it. They’ve grown closer ever since the accident, and he treats her like a sibling. Which Clarke both finds endearing, and also completely despises.</p>
<p>“Shall we?” He grabs Clarke’s elbow as he links their arms, grinning as she stumbles on her heels. She throws him a glare as she finds her footing.</p>
<p>“Asshole.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The ceremony is small.</p>
<p>They hadn’t chosen to do it in a house of worship since neither of them was religious. Instead, they picked a simple picturesque winery just out of the city. Clarke thinks it’s perfect.</p>
<p>Even though it isn’t even her wedding, she shakes on her feet as she walks down the narrow aisle with Murphy, glancing around the seating area for familiar faces.</p>
<p>Bellamy had introduced her to friends and what’s left of his family, but she still feels like an outsider amidst the rest of the company. She leans into Murphy’s side to feel a sense of reassurance.</p>
<p>The heaviness in her chest lifts as soon as her eyes land on Bellamy and Octavia, and the whole area falls into silence as the quiet tune of the wedding march plays.</p>
<p>Octavia looks stunning, there is no doubt about it. It seems that everything falls still as she takes the first few steps into the clearing. But Clarke’s eyes aren’t on her for long.</p>
<p>He wears a simple black suit and teal tie that perfectly matches the satin of Clarke’s empire-waist gown. His dark locks are slick with hair gel, and an unruly curl that never seems to go away is hanging at the side of his temple. His eyes are bright as he switches glances between Octavia and the filled-up chairs they pass.</p>
<p>Only when they reach the front of the service, and he takes his place at the side, do his eyes finally meet Clarke’s. And as ridiculous as it sounds, the rest of the world just seems to fade away.</p>
<p>Clarke hears the officiant begin his speech, sees Lincoln shakily take Octavia’s hands when it is time for vows. She hears them both sniffle and let out quiet laughs as the other one speaks, sees them exchange simple gold bands.</p>
<p>Bellamy’s eyes are hopeful, Clarke realizes. They’re glistening with want and happiness and ease, and she wishes that they would remain that way forever. She knows that she could only dream, but at that moment, it seems that maybe what she thinks may turn into reality.</p>
<p>She knows it will be a while before she will accept his love as openly and he wished she would. Even a longer time until the idea of marriage will become an option or something she wouldn’t dread. But, she supposes, for him, she would try.</p>
<p>And, she wouldn’t be doing it alone. For once in her life, she has more support and encouragement than she’d ever imagined.</p>
<p>That day on the roof, not the incident but the time after that, was a pivotal one. Bellamy’s words, of course, weren’t enough to bring her peace or set her mind at bay, but they persuaded her enough to take that first step to finding herself again.</p>
<p>She’d called her mom, first of all. She figured, if she were to start healing, it would be from the most difficult aspect of all.</p>
<p>It went as well as she thought it would.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“I need help.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke could hear her mother stutter out a weak ‘okay’. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She didn’t really know what she was asking from her mother of all people, but she’d later realize that, perhaps, the guilt of leaving her behind or in the dark would bring her back to where she started.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I’m going to get help.” Was she asking for validation?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“That’s—that’s good, Clarke.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Awkward silence. Much contrast with the one that commonly occurs between her and Bellamy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I’m going to try therapy.” Was she asking for pointers or advice?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A pause. “Do you need my help?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Does she? Would her presence or unwilful participation bring Clarke closure?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No,” she decides, and the reflex answer leaves Clarke confused. “Actually—yes. I just—if we could maybe talk, sometimes, about… things, that would be good.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She can imagine her mother nod shakily. “Okay. Yeah, we could do that.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Okay.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She’d hung up the phone.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t her mom’s support that Clarke needed, but the idea of her knowing that if she could move on and heal, maybe her mother could too. And, in the long-run, despite the occasional confrontations and arguments, she did. In her own way.</p>
<p>Clarke went to therapy. It didn’t help, at first.</p>
<p>She found herself resisting the conversations that were the reason for her pain.</p>
<p>It took her three weeks to tell her therapist the story of her father’s death. And two more to tell him of Bellamy’s close call with it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“And how does telling me that make you feel, Clarke?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>How does he think it makes her feel? It makes her physically sick to think of the dried blood that had covered their bodies, the wrangled feel of their skin, the coolness of their hands. It makes her chest feel heavy, as though it’s filling up with water, and if she utters another word, it will spill out of her and drown them both. It makes her want to never feel anything again if it meant that it would hurt so much.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>What a dumb question to ask.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Clarke?” He’d always been patient with her, and sometimes she felt bad for how long she’d make him wait for her to answer.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bad.” She digs her short nails into the cushions of the armrest of her chair instead of the flesh of her palms like he’d said to do. As much as she doesn’t want to, she knows she has to talk about it to make a change. “Really fucking bad. It makes me feel helpless. I hate that those memories still have the power to send my mind into darkness.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She feels the taste of copper flood her mouth as she bites down on her lip in frustration, as though she’d just chugged poison and it’s venom had just started to catch up to her. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her therapist nods with a pleased expression, and Clarke wants to bite back and ask him why the hell he looks so happy with her pain.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“That’s good, Clarke. Very good.” He sets his notepad down to the glass table separating them, and Clarke can’t help but note now cliché all of this feels. Perhaps a camera peering from the side of his face would feel more suitable. “The fact that you could tell me that shows that you are making progress. Simply telling me how it makes you feel is enough to show that you are ready to make amends and heal.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Amends? With whom would she have to make amends with? It’s no one’s fault but hers.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She tells him exactly that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Well, first of all, with the people you feel you have wronged. And that includes yourself. But before you can start to forgive yourself, you need to realize that everyone else has already done so.” He leans forward in his seat. “So, I will give you some homework for the next couple of weeks, alright?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Clarke nods. Because she knows she can’t avoid it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Call them. Whoever you seem fit. Let them know you’re trying and tell them you forgive, but only if you mean it.” She knows he’s talking about her mother, and the thought of forgiving her makes her stomach churn. Her therapist sees her flinch.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Trust me, Clarke. You will feel a weight lift off your shoulders once you have left the blame and hate behind. And after that, we can start working on how to forgive yourself.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t as simple as that.</p>
<p>She knew she would never truly forgive her mother for ostracizing her when she needed her the most or succumbing to her pain to the point that she’d drink herself into oblivion.</p>
<p>But it’s little steps, Clarke supposes, that would build up her sanity.</p>
<p>Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes across the hardwood podium once more. His mouth lifts in a tiny grin and Clarke can’t help but return a wider one of her own.</p>
<p>Clarke can hear Octavia and Lincoln mutter their ‘I do’s’ and kiss as they are finally wedded. The guests erupt in cheers and applause, and Clarke’s hands join in accord.</p>
<p>And as she stares at the way Bellamy’s eyes glisten with pride as he watches his sister, she can almost hear her heartbeat in her chest with a steady rhythm meant just for him.</p>
<p>
  <em>I do. I do. I do.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>They heal. Eventually.</p>
<p>Nights littered with nightmares become sparse, but they don’t ever truly go away. And they’ve learned to live with that. Because this time, they have each other to chase them away.</p>
<p>Clarke relapses. She could count on her fingers how many more days she’d spent laying in his bed –their bed— wishing she could fade away, but now she doesn’t have the luxury to block everything out.</p>
<p>She had permanently moved into Bellamy’s apartment, leaving the empty walls of Clarke’s and all that they concealed behind. They supposed that it was the logical thing to do, and quite frankly, Clarke couldn’t stand the idea of them being separated, even if it were by two floors, any longer.</p>
<p>They made it their own – picture walls merging, furniture blending, memories melding into something purely<em> theirs. </em></p>
<p>And unfortunately, that included all emotional baggage and sleepless nights.</p>
<p>Clarke could name the times that she had burst into tears in the late afternoons that she missed her father more than she could explain. <em>Emotions are good,</em> her therapist had told her.</p>
<p>She’s sure Bellamy can also recall the days that he’d held her in his arms and almost rocked her to sleep because she couldn’t do it herself.</p>
<p>And she could recall the days that she had done the same with him.</p>
<p>Clarke had understood that she could no longer fall into the abyss again. She couldn’t let herself sink to the bottom of the ocean that is her depression, comfortably numb until all oxygen would have escaped her lungs and the void would have consumed all that is left of her.</p>
<p>Because now she had him, and she doesn’t want to be selfish anymore.</p>
<p>Surprisingly, it was the little things that made her want to try. <em>For him.</em></p>
<p>It was the way he plated her scrambled eggs and toast each morning. The way he did the laundry without her asking him to after she’s had a long day. The way he made sure to pile up his papers into a neat stack on the coffee table instead of a scattered mess that she despised. The way he took inspiration from her in his writing, and the way the little details of his novel’s characters always seemed to have an ounce of her.</p>
<p>Along the way, it became for herself too.</p>
<p>She took much longer to learn to forgive herself than everyone else like she thought it would. And she never tried to forget, because it proved to do more harm than good.</p>
<p>She learned to battle her demons upfront, and not hide away in their shadows in hope that maybe, one day, it would be enough.</p>
<p>But, it was still Bellamy that made her realize she wasn’t doing it only for her own wellbeing, but his too. It took weeks of unwanted conversation, arguments, persuasion, and the slamming of doors for her to finally understand that her being okay was just as important to him as it was for her.</p>
<p>Eventually, Bellamy stopped hovering over her on her bad days in fear and concern. Soon, he let her fight it just because he thought she was strong enough. And she soon realized that she, indeed, was.</p>
<p>Because, at the end of the day, Clarke understands that <em>love</em> must simply be that. Trying, fighting, overcoming – even when you can’t or don’t want to, for someone else.</p>
<p>And so, almost a year later, when he kneels in front of her at sunrise, a ring in his hand and a stupid grin plastered on his face, and asks her to marry him, she says yes. And makes sure that everyone in their building could hear it.</p>
<p>Because Clarke had always loved heights.</p>
<p>And this is no longer one she is afraid of leaping from.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Alrighty, we are officially done.<br/>Cookies to everyone that got up to here, you're amazing. &lt;3<br/>-<br/>Stay tuned for more! I have a few works in progress :)))</p>
<p>Bye!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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